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BLACK   SPIRITS  AND   WHITE 


Black  Spirits  &  White 

A  Book  of  Ghost  Stories 


BY 


RALPH     ADAMS    CRAM 


CHICAGO 
STONE    &    KIMBALL 

MDCCCXCV 


COPYRIGHT,    1895,   BY 
STONE     AND     KIMBALL 


I 


B5 


"BLACK    SPIRITS    AND    WHITE, 

RED    SPIRITS    AND    GRAY, 
MINGLE,    MINGLE,    MINGLE, 
YE   THAT    MINGLE    MAY." 


Contents 

PAGE 

NO.   252    RUE    M.    LE    PRINCE  3 

IN    KROPFSBERG    KEEP  33 

THE    WHITE    VILLA  55 

SISTER    MADDELENA  83 

NOTRE    DAME    DES    EAUX  1 15 

THE    DEAD    VALLEY  133 

POSTSCRIPT  I5l 


No.  252   RUE   M.   LE   PRINCE. 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 


WHEN  in  May,  1886,  I  found  myself  at  last  in 
Paris,  I  naturally  determined  to  throw  myself 
on  the  charity  of  an  old  chum  of  mine,  Eugene 
Marie  d'Ardeche,  who  had  forsaken  Boston  a 
year  or  more  ago  on  receiving  word  of  the 
death  of  an  aunt  who  had  left  him  such  prop 
erty  as  she  possessed.  I  fancy  this  windfall 
surprised  him  not  a  little,  for  the  relations  be 
tween  the  aunt  and  nephew  had  never  been 
cordial,  judging  from  Eugene's  remarks  touch 
ing  the  lady,  who  was,  it  seems,  a  more  or 
less  wicked  and  witch-like  old  person,  with  a 
penchant  for  black  magic,  at  least  such  was 
the  common  report. 

Why  she  should  leave  all  her  property  to 
d'Ardeche,  no  one  could  tell,  unless  it  was 
that  she  felt  his  rather  hobbledehoy  tenden- 


4  No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

cies  towards  Buddhism  and  occultism  might 
some  day  lead  him  to  her  own  unhallowed 
height  of  questionable  illumination.  To  be  sure 
d'Ardeche  reviled  her  as  a  bad  old  woman, 
being  himself  in  that  state  of  enthusiastic  ex 
altation  which  sometimes  accompanies  a  boyish 
fancy  for  occultism  ;  but  in  spite  of  his  distant 
and  repellent  attitude,  Mile.  Blaye  de  Tartas 
made  him  her  sole  heir,  to  the  violent  wrath  of 
a  questionable  old  party  known  to  infamy  as  the 
Sar  Torrevieja,  the  "  King  of  the  Sorcerers." 
This  malevolent  old  portent,  whose  gray  and 
crafty  face  was  often  seen  in  the  Rue  M.  le 
Prince  during  the  life  of  Mile,  de  Tartas  had, 
it  seems,  fully  expected  to  enjoy  her  small 
wealth  after  her  death ;  and  when  it  appeared 
that  she  had  left  him  only  the  contents  of  the 
gloomy  old  house  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  giving 
the  house  itself  and  all  else  of  which  she  died 
possessed  to  her  nephew  in  America,  the  Sar 
proceeded  to  remove  everything  from  the  place, 
and  then  to  curse  it  elaborately  and  comprehen 
sively,  together  with  all  those  who  should  ever 
dwell  therein. 

Whereupon  he  disappeared. 

This  final  episode  was  the  last  word  I  received 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.  5 

from  Eugene,  but  I  knew  the  number  of  the 
house,  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.  So,  after  a  day  or 
two  given  to  a  first  cursory  survey  of  Paris,  I 
started  across  the  Seine  to  find  Eugene  and  com 
pel  him  to  do  the  honors  of  the  city. 

Every  one  who  knows  the  Latin  Quarter  knows 
the  Rue  M.  le  Prince,  running  up  the  hill  towards 
the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg.  It  is  full  of  queer 
houses  and  odd  corners,  —  or  was  in  '86,  —  and 
certainly  No.  252  was,  when  I  found  it,  quite  as 
queer  as  any.  It  was  nothing  but  a  doorway,  a 
black  arch  of  old  stone  between  and  under  two 
new  houses  painted  yellow.  The  effect  of  this 
bit  of  seventeenth  century  masonry,  with  its  dirty 
old  doors,  and  rusty  broken  lantern  sticking 
gaunt  and  grim  out  over  the  narrow  sidewalk, 
was,  in  its  frame  of  fresh  plaster,  sinister  in 
the  extreme. 

I  wondered  if  I  had  made  a  mistake  in  the 
number ;  it  was  quite  evident  that  no  one  lived 
behind  those  cobwebs.  I  went  into  the  door 
way  of  one  of  the  new  hotels  and  interviewed  the 
concierge. 

No,  M.  d'Ardeche  did  not  live  there,  though 
to  be  sure  he  owned  the  mansion ;  he  himself 
resided  in  Meudon,  in  the  country  house  of  the 


6  No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

late  Mile,  de  Tartas.  Would  Monsieur  like  the 
number  and  the  street? 

Monsieur  would  like  them  extremely,  so  I  took 
the  card  that  the  concierge  wrote  for  me,  and 
forthwith  started  for  the  river,  in  order  that  I 
might  take  a  steamboat  for  Meudon.  By  one  of 
those  coincidences  which  happen  so  often,  being 
quite  inexplicable,  I  had  not  gone  twenty  paces 
down  the  street  before  I  ran  directly  into  the 
arms  of  Eugene  d'Ardeche.  In  three  minutes 
we  were  sitting  in  the  queer  little  garden  of  the 
Chien  Bleu,  drinking  vermouth  and  absinthe,  and 
talking  it  all  over. 

"  You  do  not  live  in  your  aunt's  house?  "  I  said 
at  last,  interrogatively. 

"  No,  but  if  this  sort  of  thing  keeps  on  I  shall 
have  to.  I  like  Meudon  much  better,  and  the 
house  is  perfect,  all  furnished,  and  nothing  in 
it  newer  than  the  last  century.  You  must  come 
out  with  me  to-night  and  see  it.  I  have  got  a 
jolly  room  fixed  up  for  my  Buddha.  But  there 
is  something  wrong  with  this  house  opposite.  I 
can't  keep  a  tenant  in  it,  —  not  four  days.  I  have 
had  three,  all  within  six  months,  but  the  stories 
have  gone  around  and  a  man  would  as  soon 
think  of  hiring  the  Cour  des  Comptes  to  live 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.  7 

in  as  No.  252.  It  is  notorious.  The  fact  is, 
it  is  haunted  the  worst  way. " 

I  laughed  and  ordered  more  vermouth. 

"  That  is  all  right.  It  is  haunted  all  the  same, 
or  enough  to  keep  it  empty,  and  the  funny  part 
is  that  no  one  knows  how  it  is  haunted.  Noth 
ing  is  ever  seen,  nothing  heard.  As  far  as  I 
can  find  out,  people  just  have  the  horrors  there, 
and  have  them  so  bad  they  have  to  go  to  the 
hospital  afterwards.  I  have  one  ex-tenant  in  the 
Bic6tre  now.  So  the  house  stands  empty,  and 
as  it  covers  considerable  ground  and  is  taxed  for 
a  lot,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  it.  I  think 
I  '11  either  give  it  to  that  child  of  sin,  Torrevieja, 
or  else  go  and  live  in  it  myself.  I  should  n't  mind 
the  ghosts,  I  am  sure." 

"  Did  you  ever  stay  there  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  have  always  intended  to,  and  in 
fact  I  came  up  here  to-day  to  see  a  couple  of 
rake-hell  fellows  I  know,  Fargeau  and  Duchesne, 
doctors  in  the  Clinical  Hospital  beyond  here,  up 
by  the  Pare  Mont  Souris.  They  promised  that 
they  would  spend  the  night  with  me  some  time  in 
my  aunt's  house,  — which  is  called  around  here, 
you  must  know,  'la  Bouche  d'Enfer,'  —  and  I 
thought  perhaps  they  would  make  it  this  week, 


8  No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

if  they  can  get  off  duty.  Come  up  with  me 
while  I  see  them,  and  then  we  can  go  across 
the  river  to  Ve'four's  and  have  some  luncheon, 
you  can  get  your  things  at  the  Chatham,  and 
we  will  go  out  to  Meudon,  where  of  course 
you  will  spend  the  night  with  me." 

The  plan  suited  me  perfectly,  so  we  went  up 
to  the  hospital,  found  Fargeau,  who  declared 
that  he  and  Duchesne  were  ready  for  anything, 
the  nearer  the  real  "  bouche  d'  enfer  "  the  better ; 
that  the  following  Thursday  they  would  both 
be  off  duty  for  the  night,  and  that  on  that 
day  they  would  join  in  an  attempt  to  outwit  the 
devil  and  clear  up  the  mystery  of  No.  252. 

"Does  M.  I'Ame'ricam  go  with  us?"  asked 
Fargeau. 

"  Why  of  course,"  I  replied,  "  I  intend  to  go, 
and  you  must  not  refuse  me,  d'Ardeche;  I  de 
cline  to  be  put  off.  Here  is  a  chance  for 
you  to  do  the  honors  of  your  city  in  a 
manner  which  is  faultless.  Show  me  a  real 
live  ghost,  and  I  will  forgive  Paris  for  having 
lost  the  Jardin  Mabille." 

So  it  was  settled. 

Later  we  went  down  to  Meudon  and  ate 
dinner  in  the  terrace  room  of  the  villa,  which 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.  9 

was  all  that  d'Ardeche  had  said,  and  more, 
so  utterly  was  its  atmosphere  that  of  the  sev 
enteenth  century.  At  dinner  Eugene  told  me 
more  about  his  late  aunt,  and  the  queer  goings 
on  in  the  old  house. 

Mile.  Blaye  lived,  it  seems,  all  alone,  except 
for  one  female  servant  of  her  own  age  ;  a  severe, 
taciturn  creature,  with  massive  Breton  features 
and  a  Breton  tongue,  whenever  she  vouchsafed 
to  use  it.  No  one  ever  was  seen  to  enter  the 
door  of  No.  252  except  Jeanne  the  servant  and 
the  Sar  Torrevieja,  the  latter  coming  constantly 
from  none  knew  whither,  and  always  entering, 
never  leaving.  Indeed,  the  neighbors,  who  for 
eleven  years  had  watched  the  old  sorcerer  sidle 
crab-wise  up  to  the  bell  almost  every  day,  de 
clared  vociferously  that  never  had  he  been  seen 
to  leave  the  house.  Once,  when  they  decided  to 
keep  absolute  guard,  the  watcher,  none  other 
than  Maitre  Garceau  of  the  Chien  Bleu,  after 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  door  from  ten 
o'clock  one  morning  when  the  Sar  arrived  until 
four  in  the  afternoon,  during  which  time  the 
door  was  unopened  (he  knew  this,  for  had  he 
not  gummed  a  ten-centime  stamp  over  the 
joint  and  was  not  the  stamp  unbroken)  nearly 


IO         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

fell  down  when  the  sinister  figure  of  Torrevieja 
slid  wickedly  by  him  with  a  dry  "  Pardon,  Mon 
sieur  !  "  and  disappeared  again  through  the  black 
doorway. 

This  was  curious,  for  No.  252  was  entirely 
surrounded  by  houses,  its  only  windows  opening 
on  a  courtyard  into  which  no  eye  could  look 
from  the  hotels  of  the  Rue  M.  le  Prince  and 
the  Rue  de  1'Ecole,  and  the  mystery  was  one  of 
the  choice  possessions  of  the  Latin  Quarter. 

Once  a  year  the  austerity  of  the  place  was 
broken,  and  the  denizens  of  the  whole  quarter 
stood  open-mouthed  watching  many  carriages 
drive  up  to  No.  252,  many  of  them  private,  not 
a  few  with  crests  on  the  door  panels,  from  all  of 
them  descending  veiled  female  figures  and  men 
with  coat  collars  turned  up.  Then  followed 
curious  sounds  of  music  from  within,  and  those 
whose  houses  joined  the  blank  walls  of  No.  252 
became  for  the  moment  popular,  for  by  placing 
the  ear  against  the  wall  strange  music  could 
distinctly  be  heard,  and  the  sound  of  monoto 
nous  chanting  voices  now  and  then.  By  dawn 
the  last  guest  would  have  departed,  and  for 
another  year  the  hotel  of  Mile,  de  Tartas  was 
ominously  silent. 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.         n 

Eugene  declared  that  he  believed  it  was  a 
celebration  of  "  Walpurgisnacht,"  and  certainly 
appearances  favored  such  a  fancy. 

"  A  queer  thing  about  the  whole  affair  is,"  he 
said,  "the  fact  that  every  one  in  the  street 
swears  that  about  a  month  ago,  while  I  was 
out  in  Concarneau  for  a  visit,  the  music  and 
voices  were  heard  again,  just  as  when  my 
revered  aunt  was  in  the  flesh.  The  house  was 
perfectly  empty,  as  I  tell  you,  so  it  is  quite  pos 
sible  that  the  good  people  were  enjoying  an 
hallucination." 

I  must  acknowledge  that  these  stories  did 
not  reassure  me  ;  in  fact,  as  Thursday  came 
near,  I  began  to  regret  a  little  my  determination 
to  spend  the  night  in  the  house.  I  was  too 
vain  to  back  down,  however,  and  the  perfect 
coolness  of  the  two  doctors,  who  ran  down  Tues 
day  to  Meudon  to  make  a  few  arrangements, 
caused  me  to  swear  that  I  would  die  of  fright 
before  I  would  flinch.  I  suppose  I  believed 
more  or  less  in  ghosts,  I  am  sure  now  that  I  am 
older  I  believe  in  them,  there  are  in  fact  few 
things  I  can  not  believe.  Two  or  three  inex 
plicable  things  had  happened  to  me,  and,  al 
though  this  was  before  my  adventure  with 


12         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

Rendel  in  Paestum,  I  had  a  strong  predisposi 
tion  to  belive  some  things  that  I  could  not 
explain,  wherein  I  was  out  of  sympathy  with 
the  age. 

Well,  to  come  to  the  memorable  night  of  the 
twelfth  of  June,  we  had  made  our  preparations, 
and  after  depositing  a  big  bag  inside  the  doors 
of  No.  252,  went  across  to  the  Chien  Bleu, 
where  Fargeau  and  Duchesne  turned  up 
promptly,  and  we  sat  down  to  the  best  dinner 
Pere  Garceau  could  create. 

I  remember  I  hardly  felt  that  the  conversa 
tion  was  in  good  taste.  It  began  with  various 
stories  of  Indian  fakirs  and  Oriental  jugglery, 
matters  in  which  Eugene  was  curiously  well 
read,  swerved  to  the  horrors  of  the  great  Sepoy 
mutiny,  and  thus  to  reminiscences  of  the  dis 
secting-room.  By  this  time  we  had  drunk  more 
or  less,  and  Duchesne  launched  into  a  photo 
graphic  and  Zolaesque  account  of  the  only  time 
{as  he  said)  when  he  was  possessed  of  the 
panic  of  fear;  namely,  one  night  many  years 
ago,  when  he  was  locked  by  accident  into  the 
dissecting-room  of  the  Loucine,  together  with 
several  cadavers  of  a  rather  unpleasant  nature. 
I  ventured  to  protest  mildly  against  the  choice 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.          13 

of  subjects,  the  result  being  a  perfect  carnival 
of  horrors,  so  that  when  we  finally  drank  our 
last  crime  de  cacao  and  started  for  "  la  Bouche 
d'Enfer,"  my  nerves  were  in  a  somewhat  rocky 
condition. 

It  was  just  ten  o'clock  when  we  came  into 
the  street.  A  hot  dead  wind  drifted  in  great 
puffs  through  the  eity,  and  ragged  masses  of 
vapor  swept  the  purple  sky  ;  an  unsavory  night 
altogether,  one  of  those  nights  of  hopeless  lassi 
tude  when  one  feels,  if  one  is  at  home,  like  doing 
nothing  but  drink  mint  juleps  and  smoke  ciga 
rettes. 

Eugene  opened  the  creaking  door,  and  tried 
to  light  one  of  the  lanterns ;  but  the  gusty  wind 
blew  out  every  match,  and  we  finally  had  to 
close  the  outer  doors  before  we  could  get  a 
light.  At  last  we  had  all  the  lanterns  going, 
and  I  began  to  look  around  curiously.  We  were 
in  a  long,  vaulted  passage,  partly  carriageway, 
partly  footpath,  perfectly  bare  but  for  the 
street  refuse  which  had  drifted  in  with  eddying 
winds.  Beyond  lay  the  courtyard,  a  curious 
place  rendered  more  curious  still  by  the  fitful 
moonlight  and  the  flashing  of  four  dark  lan 
terns.  The  place  had  evidently  been  once  a 


14         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

most  noble  palace.  Opposite  rose  the  oldest 
portion,  a  three-story  wall  of  the  time  of  Fran 
cis  I.,  with  a  great  wisteria  vine  covering  half. 
The  wings  on  either  side  were  more  modern, 
seventeenth  century,  and  ugly,  while  towards 
the  street  was  nothing  but  a  flat  unbroken 
wall. 

The  great  bare  court,  littered  with  bits  of 
paper  blown  in  by  the  wind,  fragments  of  pack 
ing  cases,  and  straw,  mysterious  with  flashing 
lights  and  flaunting  shadows,  while  low  masses 
of  torn  vapor  drifted  overhead,  hiding,  then 
revealing  the  stars,  and  all  in  absolute  silence, 
not  even  the  sounds  of  the  streets  entering  this 
prison-like  place,  was  weird  and  uncanny  in  the 
extreme.  I  must  confess  that  already  I  began  to 
feel  a  slight  disposition  towards  the  horrors,  but 
with  that  curious  inconsequence  which  so  often 
happens  in  the  case  of  those  who  are  deliber 
ately  growing  scared,  I  could  think  of  nothing 
more  reassuring  than  those  delicious  verses  of 
Lewis  Carroll's:  — 

"  Just  the  place  for  a  Snark !     I  have  said  it  twice, 

That  alone  should  encourage  the  crew. 
Just  the  place  for  a  Snark  !     I  have  said  it  thrice, 
What  I  tell  you  three  times  is  true,"  — 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.         15 

which  kept  repeating  themselves  over  and  over 
in  my  brain  with  feverish  insistence. 

Even  the  medical  students  had  stopped  their 
chaffing,  and  were  studying  the  surroundings 
gravely. 

"  There  is  one  thing  certain,"  said  Fargeau, 
'•'•anything  might  have  happened  here  without 
the  slightest  chance  of  discovery.  Did  ever 
you  see  such  a  perfect  place  for  lawlessness  ?  " 

"  And  anything  might  happen  here  now,  with 
the  same  certainty  of  impunity,"  continued 
Duchesne,  lighting  his  pipe,  the  snap  of  the 
match  making  us  all  start.  "  D'Ardeche,  your 
lamented  relative  was  certainly  well  fixed;  she 
had  full  scope  here  for  her  traditional  experi 
ments  in  demonology." 

"  Curse  me  if  I  don't  believe  that  those  same 
traditions  were  more  or  less  founded  on  fact," 
said  Eugene.  "  I  never  saw  this  court  under 
these  conditions  before,  but  I  could  believe  any 
thing  now.  What 's  that ! " 

"Nothing  but  a  door  slamming,"  said  Du 
chesne,  loudly. 

"  Well,  I  wish  doors  would  n't  slam  in  houses 
that  have  been  empty  eleven  months." 

"  It  is  irritating,"  and  Duchesne  slipped  his 


16         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

arm  through  mine ;  "  but  we  must  take  things 
as  they  come.  Remember  we  have  to  deal 
not  only  with  the  spectral  lumber  left  here  by 
your  scarlet  aunt,  but  as  well  with  the  superero 
gatory  curse  of  that  hell-cat  Torrevieja.  Come 
on  !  let 's  get  inside  before  the  hour  arrives  for 
the  sheeted  dead  to  squeak  and  gibber  in  these 
lonely  halls.  Light  your  pipes,  your  tobacco  is 
a  sure  protection  against '  your  whoreson  dead 
bodies  ' ;  light  up  and  move  on." 

We  opened  the  hall  door  and  entered  a  vaulted 
stone  vestibule,  full  of  dust,  and  cobwebby. 

"  There  is  nothing  on  this  floor,'5  said  Eugene, 
"  except  servants'  rooms  and  offices,  and  I  don't 
believe  there  is  anything  wrong  with  them.  I 
never  heard  that  there  was,  any  way.  Let 's  go 
up  stairs." 

So  far  as  we  could  see,  the  house  was  appar 
ently  perfectly  uninteresting  inside,  all  eigh 
teenth  century  work,  the  fagade  of  the  main 
building  being,  with  the  vestibule,  the  only 
portion  of  the  Francis  I.  work. 

"  The  place  was  burned  during  the  Terror," 
said  Eugene,  "for  my  great-uncle,  from  whom 
Mile,  de  Tartas  inherited  it,  was  a  good  and  true 
Royalist ;  he  went  to  Spain  after  the  Revolution, 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.         17 

and  did  not  come  back  until  the  accession  of 
Charles  X.,  when  he  restored  the  house,  and 
then  died,  enormously  old.  This  explains  why 
it  is  all  so  new." 

The  old  Spanish  sorcerer  to  whom  Mile,  de 
Tartas  had  left  her  personal  property  had  done 
his  work  thoroughly.  The  house  was  absolutely 
empty,  even  the  wardrobes  and  bookcases  built 
in  had  been  carried  away ;  we  went  through 
room  after  room,  finding  all  absolutely  dis 
mantled,  only  the  windows  and  doors  with  their 
casings,  the  parquet  floors,  and  the  florid  Renais 
sance  mantels  remaining. 

"  I  feel  better,"  remarked  Fargeau.  "  The  house 
may  be  haunted,  but  it  don't  look  it,  certainly ; 
it  is  the  most  respectable  place  imaginable." 

"  Just  you  wait,"  replied  Eugene.  "  These  are 
only  the  state  apartments,  which  my  aunt  seldom 
used,  except,  perhaps,  on  her  annual  '  Walpur- 
gisnacht.'  Come  up  stairs  and  I  will  show  you 
a  better  mise  en  scene.'1'1 

On  this  floor,  the  rooms  fronting  the  court,  the 
sleeping-rooms,  were  quite  small,  —  ("  They  are 
the  bad  rooms  all  the  same,"  said  Eugene,)— four 
of  them,  all  just  as  ordinary  in  appearance  as 
those  below.  A  corridor  ran  behind  them  con- 


i8          No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

necting  with  the  wing  corridor,  and  from  this 
opened  a  door,  unlike  any  of  the  other  doors  in 
that  it  was  covered  with  green  baize,  somewhat 
moth-eaten.  Eugene  selected  a  key  from  the 
bunch  he  carried,  unlocked  the  door,  and  with 
some  difficulty  forced  it  to  swing  inward ;  it  was 
as  heavy  as  the  door  of  a  safe. 

"  We  are  now,"  he  said,"  on  the  very  thresh 
old  of  hell  itself ;  these  rooms  in  here  were  my 
scarlet  aunt's  unholy  of  unholies.  I  never  let 
them  with  the  rest  of  the  house,  but  keep  them 
as  a  curiosity.  I  only  wish  Torre vieja  had  kept 
out;  as  it  was,  he  looted  them,  as  he  did  the 
rest  of  the  house,  and  nothing  is  left  but  the 
walls  and  ceiling  and  floor.  They  are  some 
thing,  however,  and  may  suggest  what  the  for 
mer  condition  must  have  been.  Tremble  and 
enter." 

The  first  apartment  was  a  kind  of  anteroom,  a 
cube  of  perhaps  twenty  feet  each  way,  without 
windows,  and  with  no  doors  except  that  by  which 
we  entered  and  another  to  the  right.  Walls,  floor, 
and  ceiling  were  covered  with  a  black  lacquer, 
brilliantly  polished,  that  flashed  the  light  of  our 
lanterns  in  a  thousand  intricate  reflections.  It 
was  like  the  inside  of  an  enormous  Japanese  box, 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.         19 

and  about  as  empty.  From  this  we  passed  to 
another  room,  and  here  we  nearly  dropped  our 
lanterns.  The  room  was  circular,  thirty  feet  or 
so  in  diameter,  covered  by  a  hemispherical  dome  ; 
walls  and  ceiling  were  dark  blue,  spotted  with 
gold  stars ;  and  reaching  from  floor  to  floor 
across  the  dome  stretched  a  colossal  figure  in 
red  lacquer  of  a  nude  woman  kneeling,  her 
legs  reaching  out  along  the  floor  on  either 
side,  her  head  touching  the  lintel  of  the  door 
through  which  we  had  entered,  her  arms  form 
ing  its  sides,  with  the  fore  arms  extended  and 
stretching  along  the  walls  until  they  met  the 
long  feet.  The  most  astounding,  misshapen, 
absolutely  terrifying  thing,  I  think,  I  ever  saw. 
From  the  navel  hung  a  great  white  object,  like 
the  traditional  roe's  egg  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 
The  floor  was  of  red  lacquer,  and  in  it  was 
inlaid  a  pentagram  the  size  of  the  room,  made 
of  wide  strips  of  brass.  In  the  centre  of  this 
pentagram  was  a  circular  disk  of  black  stone, 
slightly  saucer-shaped,  with  a  small  outlet  in  the 
middle. 

The  effect  of  the  room  was  simply  crushing, 
with  this  gigantic  red  figure  crouched,  over  it  all, 
the  staring  eyes  fixed  on  one,  no  matter  what  his 


20         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

position.  None  of  us  spoke,  so  oppressive  was 
the  whole  thing. 

The  third  room  was  like  the  first  in  dimen 
sions,  but  instead  of  being  black  it  was  entirely 
sheathed  with  plates  of  brass,  walls,  ceiling,  and 
floor,  —  tarnished  now,  and  turning  green,  but 
still  brilliant  under  the  lantern  light.  In  the 
middle  stood  an  oblong  altar  of  porphyry,  its 
longer  dimensions  on  the  axis  of  the  suite  of 
rooms,  and  at  one  end,  opposite  the  range  of 
doors,  a  pedestal  of  black  basalt. 

This  was  all.  Three  rooms,  stranger  than 
these,  even  in  their  emptiness,  it  would  be 
hard  to  imagine.  In  Egypt,  in  India,  they 
would  not  be  entirely  out  of  place,  but  here 
in  Paris,  in  a  commonplace  hotel^  in  the  Rue 
M.  le  Prince,  they  were  incredible. 

We  retraced  our  steps,  Eugene  closed  the 
iron  door  with  its  baize  covering,  and  we  went 
into  one  of  the  front  chambers  and  sat  down, 
looking  at  each  other. 

"  Nice  party,  your  aunt,"  said  Fargeau.  "  Nice 
old  party,  with  amiable  tastes ;  I  am  glad  we  are 
not  to  spend  the  night  in  those  rooms." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  she  did  there  ?  "  in 
quired  Duchesne.  "  I  know  more  or  less  about 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.         21 

black  art,  but  that  series  of  rooms  is  too  much 
for  me." 

"  My  impression  is,"  said  d'Ardeche,  "  that  the 
brazen  room  was  a  kind  of  sanctuary  containing 
some  image  or  other  on  the  basalt  base,  while 
the  stone  in  front  was  really  an  altar,  —  what  the 
nature  of  the  sacrifice  might  be  I  don't  even 
guess.  The  round  room  may  have  been  used 
for  invocations  and  incantations.  The  penta 
gram  looks  like  it.  Any  way  it  is  all  just 
about  as  queer  and  fin  de  sttcle  as  I  can  well 
imagine.  Look  here,  it  is  nearly  twelve,  let 's 
dispose  of  ourselves,  if  we  are  going  to  hunt 
this  thing  down." 

The  four  chambers  on  this  floor  of  the  old 
house  were  those  said  to  be  haunted,  the 
wings  being  quite  innocent,  and,  so  far  as  we 
knew,  the  floors  below.  It  was  arranged  that 
we  should  each  occupy  a  room,  leaving  the 
doors  open  with  the  lights  burning,  and  at  the 
slightest  cry  or  knock  we  were  all  to  rush  at 
once  to  the  room  from  which  the  warning 
sound  might  come.  There  was  no  communi 
cation  between  the  rooms  to  be  sure,  but,  as 
the  doors  all  opened  into  the  corridor,  every 
sound  was  plainly  audible. 


22         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

The  last  room  fell  to  me,  and  I  looked  it  over 
carefully. 

It  seemed  innocent  enough,  a  commonplace, 
square,  rather  lofty  Parisian  sleeping-room, 
finished  in  wood  painted  white,  with  a  small 
marble  mantel,  a  dusty  floor  of  inlaid  maple 
and  cherry,  walls  hung  with  an  ordinary  French 
paper,  apparently  quite  new,  and  two  deeply  em 
brasured  windows  looking  out  on  the  court. 

I  opened  the  swinging  sash  with  some  trouble, 
and  sat  down  in  the  window  seat  with  my  lan 
tern  beside  me  trained  on  the  only  door,  which 
gave  on  the  corridor. 

The  wind  had  gone  down,  and  it  was  very 
still  without,  —  still  and  hot.  The  masses  of 
luminous  vapor  were  gathering  thickly  over 
head,  no  longer  urged  by  the  gusty  wind.  The 
great  masses  of  rank  wisteria  leaves,  with  here 
and  there  a  second  blossoming  of  purple  flowers, 
hung  dead  over  the  window  in  the  sluggish  air. 
Across  the  roofs  I  could  hear  the  sound  of  a 
belated  fiacre  in  the  streets  below.  I  filled  my 
pipe  again  and  waited. 

For  a  time  the  voices  of  the  men  in  the 
other  rooms  were  a  companionship,  and  at  first 
I  shouted  to  them  now  and  then,  but  my  voice 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.         23 

echoed  rather  unpleasantly  through  the  long 
corridors,  and  had  a  suggestive  way  of  rever 
berating  around  the  left  wing  beside  me,  and 
coming  out  at  a  broken  window  at  its  ex 
tremity  like  the  voice  of  another  man.  I  soon 
gave  up  my  attempts  at  conversation,  and  de 
voted  myself  to  the  task  of  keeping  awake. 

It  was  not  easy ;  why  did  I  eat  that  lettuce 
salad  at  Pere  Garceau's  ?  I  should  have  known 
better.  It  was  making  me  irresistibly  sleepy, 
and  wakefulness  was  absolutely  necessary.  It 
was  certainly  gratifying  to  know  that  I  could 
sleep,  that  my  courage  was  by  me  to  that  ex 
tent,  but  in  the  interests  of  science  I  must  keep 
awake.  But  almost  never,  it  seemed,  had  sleep 
looked  so  desirable.  Half  a  hundred  times, 
nearly,  I  would  doze  for  an  instant,  only  to 
awake  with  a  start,  and  find  my  pipe  gone  out. 
Nor  did  the  exertion  of  relighting  it  pull  me  to 
gether.  I  struck  my  match  mechanically,  and 
with  the  first  puff  dropped  off  again.  It  was 
most  vexing.  I  got  up  and  walked  around  the 
room.  It  was  most  annoying.  My  cramped 
position  had  almost  put  both  my  legs  to  sleep. 
I  could  hardly  stand.  I  felt  numb,  as  though 
with  cold.  There  was  no  longer  any  sound 


24         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

from  the  other  rooms,  nor  from  without.  I 
sank  down  in  my  window  seat.  How  dark  it 
was  growing !  I  turned  up  the  lantern.  That 
pipe  again,  how  obstinately  it  kept  going  out ! 
and  my  last  match  was  gone.  The  lantern,  too, 
was  that  going  out?  I  lifted  my  hand  to  turn  it 
up  again.  It  felt  like  lead,  and  fell  beside  me. 

Then  I  awoke,  —  absolutely.  I  remembered 
the  story  of  "  The  Haunters  and  the  Haunted." 
This  was  the  Horror.  I  tried  to  rise,  to  cry 
out.  My  body  was  like  lead,  my  tongue  was 
paralyzed.  I  could  hardly  move  my  eyes.  And 
the  light  was  going  out.  There  was  no  ques 
tion  about  that.  Darker  and  darker  yet ;  little 
by  little  the  pattern  of  the  paper  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  advancing  night.  A  prickling  numb 
ness  gathered  in  every  nerve,  my  right  arm 
slipped  without  feeling  from  my  lap  to  my  side, 
and  I  could  not  raise  it,  —  it  swung  helpless.  A 
thin,  keen  humming  began  in  my  head,  like 
the  cicadas  on  a  hillside  in  September.  The 
darkness  was  coming  fast. 

Yes,  this  was  it.  Something  was  subjecting 
me,  body  and  mind,  to  slow  paralysis.  Physi 
cally  I  was  already  dead.  If  I  could  only  hold 
my  mind,  my  consciousness,  I  might  still  be 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.         25 

safe,  but  could  I  ?  Could  I  resist  the  mad  hor 
ror  of  this  silence,  the  deepening  dark,  the 
creeping  numbness?  I  knew  that,  like  the 
man  in  the  ghost  story,  my  only  safety  lay  here. 

It  had  come  at  last.  My  body  was  dead,  I 
could  no  longer  move  my  eyes.  They  were 
fixed  in  that  last  look  on  the  place  where  the 
door  had  been,  now  only  a  deepening  of  the 
dark. 

Utter  night:  the  last  flicker  of  the  lantern 
was  gone.  I  sat  and  waited ;  my  mind  was 
still  keen,  but  how  long  would  it  last  ?  There 
was  a  limit  even  to  the  endurance  of  the  utter 
panic  of  fear. 

Then  the  end  began.  In  the  velvet  black 
ness  came  two  white  eyes,  milky,  opalescent, 
small,  far  away, — awful  eyes,  like  a  dead  dream. 
More  beautiful  than  I  can  describe,  the  flakes 
of  white  flame  moving  from  the  perimeter  in 
ward,  disappearing  in  the  centre,  like  a  never 
ending  flow  of  opal  water  into  a  circular  tunnel. 
I  could  not  have  moved  my  eyes  had  I  pos 
sessed  the  power:  they  devoured  the  fearful, 
beautiful  things  that  grew  slowly,  slowly  larger, 
fixed  on  me,  advancing,  growing  more  beautiful, 
the  white  flakes  of  light  sweeping  more  swiftly 


26         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

into  the  blazing  vortices,  the  awful  fascination 
deepening  in  its  insane  intensity  as  the  white, 
vibrating  eyes  grew  nearer,  larger. 

Like  a  hideous  and  implacable  engine  of 
death  the  eyes  of  the  unknown  Horror  swelled 
and  expanded  until  they  were  close  before  me, 
enormous,  terrible,  and  I  felt  a  slow,  cold,  wet 
breath  propelled  with  mechanical  regularity 
against  my  face,  enveloping  me  in  its  fetid  mist, 
in  its  charnel-house  deadliness. 

With  ordinary  fear  goes  always  a  physical 
terror,  but  with  me  in  the  presence  of  this  un 
speakable  Thing  was  only  the  utter  and  awful 
terror  of  the  mind,  the  mad  fear  of  a  prolonged 
and  ghostly  nightmare.  Again  and  again  I 
tried  to  shriek,  to  make  some  noise,  but  physi 
cally  I  was  utterly  dead.  I  could  only  feel 
myself  go  mad  with  the  terror  of  hideous  death. 
The  eyes  were  close  on  me,  —  their  movement 
so  swift  that  they  seemed  to  be  but  palpitating 
flames,  the  dead  breath  was  around  me  like  the 
depths  of  the  deepest  sea. 

Suddenly  a  wet.  icy  mouth,  like  that  of  a 
dead  cuttle-fish,  shapeless,  jelly-like,  fell  over 
mine.  The  horror  began  slowly  to  draw  my 
life  from  me,  but,  as  enormous  and  shuddering 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.         27 

folds  of  palpitating  jelly  swept  sinuously  around 
me,  my  will  came  back,  my  body  awoke  with 
the  reaction  of  final  fear,  and  I  closed  with  the 
nameless  death  that  enfolded  me. 

What  was  it  that  I  was  fighting  ?  My  arms 
sunk  through  the  unresisting  mass  that  was 
turning  me  to  ice.  Moment  by  moment  new 
folds  of  cold  jelly  swept  round  me,  crushing  me 
with  the  force  of  Titans.  I  fought  to  wrest  my 
mouth  from  this  awful  Thing  that  sealed  it,  but, 
if  ever  I  succeeded  and  caught  a  single  breath, 
the  wet,  sucking  mass  closed  over  my  face 
again  before  I  could  cry  out.  I  think  I  fought 
for  hours,  desperately,  insanely,  in  a  silence 
that  was  more  hideous  than  any  sound,  —  fought 
until  I  felt  final  death  at  hand,  until  the  memory 
of  all  my  life  rushed  over  me  like  a  flood,  until 
I  no  longer  had  strength  to  wrench  my  face 
from  that  hellish  succubus,  until  with  a  last 
mechanical  struggle  I  fell  and  yielded  to  death. 

Then  I  heard  a  voice  say,  "  If  he  is  dead,  I 
can  never  forgive  myself ;  I  was  to  blame." 

Another  replied,  "  He  is  not  dead,  I  know  we 
can  save  him  if  only  we  reach  the  hospital  in 
time.  Drive  like  hell,  cocker!  twenty  francs 
for  you,  if  you  get  there  in  three  minutes." 


28         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

Then  there  was  night  again,  and  nothingness, 
until  I  suddenly  awoke  and  stared  around.  I 
lay  in  a  hospital  ward,  very  white  and  sunny, 
some  y dhow  fleurs-de-lis  stood  beside  the  head 
of  the  pallet,  and  a  tall  sister  of  mercy  sat  by 
my  side. 

To  tell  the  story  in  a  few  words,  I  was  in  the 
Hotel  Dieu,  where  the  men  had  taken  me  that 
fearful  night  of  the  twelfth  of  June.  I  asked 
for  Fargeau  or  Duchesne,  and  by  and  by  the 
latter  came,  and  sitting  beside  the  bed  told  me 
all  that  I  did  not  know. 

It  seems  that  they  had  sat,  each  in  his  room, 
hour  after  hour,  hearing  nothing,  very  much 
bored,  and  disappointed.  Soon  after  two 
o'clock  Fargeau,  who  was  in  the  next  room, 
called  to  me  to  ask  if  I  was  awake.  I  gave  no 
reply,  and,  after  shouting  once  or  twice,  he  took 
his  lantern  and  came  to  investigate.  The  door 
was  locked  on  the  inside  !  He  instantly  called 
d'Ardeche  and  Duchesne,  and  together  they 
hurled  themselves  against  the  door.  It  resisted. 
Within  they  could  hear  irregular  footsteps  dash 
ing  here  and  there,  with  heavy  breathing.  Al 
though  frozen  with  terror,  they  fought  to  destroy 
the  door  and  finally  succeeded  by  using  a  great 
slab  of  marble  that  formed  the  shelf  of  the  man- 


No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince.          29 

tel  in  Fargeau's  room.  As  the  door  crashed  in, 
they  were  suddenly  hurled  back  against  the 
walls  of  the  corridor,  as  though  by  an  explosion, 
the  lanterns  were  extinguished,  and  they  found 
themselves  in  utter  silence  and  darkness. 

As  soon  as  they  recovered  from  the  shock, 
they  leaped  into  the  room  and  fell  over  my  body 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  They  lighted  one 
of  the  lanterns,  and  saw  the  strangest  sight  that 
can  be  imagined.  The  floor  and  walls  to  the 
height  of  about  six  feet  were  running  with  some 
thing  that  seemed  like  stagnant  water,  thick, 
glutinous,  sickening.  As  for  me,  I  was  drenched 
with  the  same  cursed  liquid.  The  odor  of 
musk  was  nauseating.  They  dragged  me 
away,  stripped  off  my  clothing,  wrapped  me  in 
their  coats,  and  hurried  to  the  hospital,  think 
ing  me  perhaps  dead.  -  Soon  after  sunrise 
d'Ardeche  left  the  hospital,  being  assured  that 
I  was  in  a  fair  way  to  recovery,  with  time,  and 
with  Fargeau  went  up  to  examine  by  daylight 
the  traces  of  the  adventure  that  was  so  nearly 
fatal.  They  were  too  late.  Fire  engines  were 
coming  down  the  street  as  they  passed  the  Aca- 
ddmie.  A  neighbor  rushed  up  to  d'Ardeche  : 
"  O  Monsieur  !  what  misfortune,  yet  what  for- 


30         No.  252  Rue  M.  le  Prince. 

tune!  It  is  true  la  Bouche  cTEnfer — I  beg 
pardon,  the  residence  of  the  lamented  Mile,  de 
Tartas,  —  was  burned,  but  not  wholly,  only  the 
ancient  building.  The  wings  were  saved,  and 
for  that  great  credit  is  due  the  brave  firemen. 
Monsieur  will  remember  them,  no  doubt." 

It  was  quite  true.  Whether  a  forgotten  lan 
tern,  overturned  in  the  excitement,  had  done  the 
work,  or  whether  the  origin  of  the  fire  was  more 
supernatural,  it  was  certain  that  "  the  Mouth  of 
Hell "  was  no  more.  A  last  engine  was  pump 
ing  slowly  as  d'Ardeche  came  up ;  half  a  dozen 
limp,  and  one  distended,  hose  stretched  through 
the  porte  cocker e,  and  within  only  the  facade  of 
Francis  I.  remained,  draped  still  with  the  black 
stems  of  the  wisteria.  Beyond  lay  a  great 
vacancy,  where  thin  smoke  was  rising  slowly. 
Every  floor  was  gone,  and  the  strange  halls  of 
Mile.  Blaye  de  Tartas  were  only  a  memory. 

With  d'Ardeche  I  visited  the  place  last 
year,  but  in  the  stead  of  the  ancient  walls  was 
then  only  a  new  and  ordinary  building,  fresh 
and  respectable;  yet  the  wonderful  stories  of 
the  old  Bouche  d^Enfer  still  lingered  in  the  quar 
ter,  and  will  hold  there,  I  do  not  doubt,  until  the 
Day  of  Judgment. 


IN   KROPFSBERG   KEEP. 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep, 


To  the  traveller  from  Innsbruck  to  Munich,  up 
the  lovely  valley  of  the  silver  Inn,  many  castles 
appear,  one  after  another,  each  on  its  beetling 
cliff  or  gentle  hill,  —  appear  and  disappear,  melt 
ing  into  the  dark  fir  trees  that  grow  so  thickly 
on  every  side,  —  Laneck,  Lichtwer,  Ratholtz, 
Tratzberg,  Matzen,  Kropfsberg,  gathering  close 
around  the  entrance  to  the  dark  and  wonderful 
Zillerthal. 

But  to  us  —  Tom  Rendel  and  myself  —  there 
are  two  castles  only:  not  the  gorgeous  and 
princely  Ambras,  nor  the  noble  old  Tratzberg, 
with  its  crowded  treasures  of  solemn  and  splen 
did  medievalism;  but  little  Matzen,  where 
eager  hospitality  forms  the  new  life  of  a  never- 
dead  chivalry,  and  Kropfsberg,  ruined,  tottering, 


34  I°  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

blasted  by  fire  and  smitten  with  grievous  years, 
— a  dead  thing,  and  haunted, —full  of  strange 
legends,  and  eloquent  of  mystery  and  tragedy. 

We  were  visiting  the  von  C s  at  Matzen, 

and  gaining  our  first  wondering  knowledge  of 
the  courtly,  cordial  castle  life  in  the  Tyrol,  —  of 
the  gentle  and  delicate  hospitality  of  noble  Aus- 
trians.  Brixleg  had  ceased  to  be  but  a  mark  on 
a  map,  and  had  become  a  place  of  rest  and  de 
light,  a  home  for  homeless  wanderers  on  the 
face  of  Europe,  while  Schloss  Matzen  was  a 
synonym  for  all  that  was  gracious  and  kindly 
and  beautiful  in  life.  The  days  moved  on  in  a 
golden  round  of  riding  and  driving  and  shoot 
ing:  down  to  Landl  and  Thiersee  for  chamois, 
across  the  river  to  the  magic  Achensee,  up  the 
Zillerthal,  across  the  Schmerner  Joch,  even  to 
the  railway  station  at  Steinach.  And  in  the 
evenings  after  the  late  dinners  in  the  upper 
hall  where  the  sleepy  hounds  leaned  against 
our  chairs  looking  at  us  with  suppliant  eyes, 
in  the  evenings  when  the  fire  was  dying  away 
in  the  hooded  fireplace  in  the  library,  stones. 
Stories,  and  legends,  and  fairy  tales,  while  the 
stiff  old  portraits  changed  countenance  con 
stantly  under  the  flickering  firelight,  and  the 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  35 

sound  of  the  drifting  Inn  came  softly  across 
the  meadows  far  below. 

If  ever  I  tell  the  Story  of  Schloss  Matzen, 
then  will  be  the  time  to  paint  the  too  inade 
quate  picture  of  this  fair  oasis  in  the  desert  of 
travel  and  tourists  and  hotels ;  but  just  now  it 
is  Kropfsberg  the  Silent  that  is  of  greater  im 
portance,  for  it  was  only  in  Matzen  that  the 

story  was  told  by  Fraulein  E ,  the  gold-haired 

niece  of  Frau  von  C ,  one  hot  evening  in  July, 

when  we  were  sitting  in  the  great  west  window 
of  the  drawing-room  after  a  long  ride  up  the 
Stallenthal.  All  the  windows  were  open  to 
catch  the  faint  wind,  and  we  had  sat  for  a  long 
time  watching  the  Otzethaler  Alps  turn  rose- 
color  over  distant  Innsbriick,  then  deepen  to 
violet  as  the  sun  went  down  and  the  white 
mists  rose  slowly  until  Lichtwer  and  Laneck 
and  Kropfsberg  rose  like  craggy  islands  in  a 
silver  sea. 

And  this  is  the  story  as  Fraulein  E told 

it  to  us, — the  Story  of  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

A  great  many  years  ago,  soon  after  my  grand 
father  died,  and  Matzen  came  to  us,  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  and  so  young  that  I  remember 


36  In  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

nothing  of  the  affair  except  as  something  dread 
ful  that  frightened  me  very  much,  two  young 
men  who  had  studied  painting  with  my  grand 
father  came  down  to  Brixleg  from  Munich, 
partly  to  paint,  and  partly  to  amuse  themselves, 
—  "ghost-hunting"  as  they  said,  for  they  were 
very  sensible  young  men  and  prided  themselves 
on  it,  laughing  at  all  kinds  of  "superstition," 
and  particularly  at  that  form  which  believed  in 
ghosts  and  feared  them.  They  had  never  seen 
a  real  ghost,  you  know,  and  they  belonged  to  a 
certain  set  of  people  who  believed  nothing  they 
had  not  seen  themselves,  —  which  always  seemed 
to  me  very  conceited.  Well,  they  knew  that  we 
had  lots  of  beautiful  castles  here  in  the  "  lower 
valley,"  and  they  assumed,  and  rightly,  that 
every  castle  has  at  least  one  ghost  story  con 
nected  with  it,  so  they  chose  this  as  their  hunt 
ing  ground,  only  the  game  they  sought  was 
ghosts,  not  chamois.  Their  plan  was  to  visit 
every  place  that  was  supposed  to  be  haunted, 
and  to  meet  every  reputed  ghost,  and  prove  that 
it  really  was  no  ghost  at  all. 

There  was  a  little  inn  down  in  the  village  then, 
kept  by  an  old  man  named  Peter  Rosskopf,  and 
the  two  young  men  made  this  their  headquarters. 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  37 

The  very  first  night  they  began  to  draw  from 
the  old  innkeeper  all  that  he  knew  of  legends 
and  ghost  stories  connected  with  Brixleg  and 
its  castles,  and  as  he  was  a  most  garrulous  old 
gentleman  he  filled  them  with  the  wildest  delight 
by  his  stories  of  the  ghosts  of  the  castles  about 
the  mouth  of  the  Zillerthal.  Of  course  the  old 
man  believed  every  word  he  said,  and  you  can 
imagine  his  horror  and  amazement  when,  after 
telling  his  guests  the  particularly  blood-curdling 
story  of  Kropfsberg  and  its  haunted  keep,  the 
elder  of  the  two  boys,  whose  surname  I  have  for 
gotten,  but  whose  Christian  name  was  Rupert, 
calmly  said,  "  Your  story  is  most  satisfactory: 
we  will  sleep  in  Kropfsberg  Keep  to-morrow 
night,  and  you  must  provide  us  with  all  that 
we  may  need  to  make  ourselves  comfortable." 

The  old  man  nearly  fell  into  the  fire.  "  What 
for  a  blockhead  are  you  ?  "  he  cried,  with  big 
eyes.  "  The  keep  is  haunted  by  Count  Albert's 
ghost,  I  tell  you !  " 

"  That  is  why  we  are  going  there  to-morrow 
night;  we  wish  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Count  Albert." 

"  But  there  was  a  man  stayed  there  once,  and 
in  the  morning  he  was  dead." 


38  In  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

"Very  silly  of  him  ;  there  are  two  of  us,  and 
we  carry  revolvers." 

"  But  it 's  a  ghost,  I  tell  you,"  almost  screamed 
the  innkeeper ;  "  are  ghosts  afraid  of  firearms  ?  " 

"  Whether  they  are  or  not,  we  are  not  afraid 
of  them? 

Here  the  younger  boy  broke  in,  —  he  was 
named  Otto  von  Kleist.  I  remember  the  name, 
for  I  had  a  music  teacher  once  by  that  name. 
He  abused  the  poor  old  man  shamefully ;  told 
him  that  they  were  going  to  spend  the  night  in 
Kropfsberg  in  spite  of  Count  Albert  and  Peter 
Rosskopf,  and  that  he  might  as  well  make  the 
most  of  it  and  earn  his  money  with  cheerfulness. 

In  a  word,  they  finally  bullied  the  old  fellow 
into  submission,  and  when  the  morning  came 
he  set  about  preparing  for  the  suicide,  as  he 
considered  it,  with  sighs  and  mutterings  and 
ominous  shakings  of  the  head. 

You  know  the  condition  of  the  castle  now,  — 
nothing  but  scorched  walls  and  crumbling  piles 
of  fallen  masonry.  Well,  at  the  time  I  tell  you 
of,  the  keep  was  still  partially  preserved.  It  was 
finally  burned  out  only  a  few  years  ago  by  some 
wicked  boys  who  came  over  from  Jenbach  to 
have  a  good  time.  But  when  the  ghost  hunters 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  39 

came,  though  the  two  lower  floors  had  fallen 
into  the  crypt,  the  third  floor  remained.  The 
peasants  said  it  could  not  fall,  but  that  it  would 
stay  until  the  Day  of  Judgment,  because  it  was 
in  the  room  above  that  the  wicked  Count  Albert 
sat  watching  the  flames  destroy  the  great  castle 
and  his  imprisoned  guests,  and  where  he  finally 
hung  himself  in  a  suit  of  armor  that  had  be 
longed  to  his  mediaeval  ancestor,  the  first  Count 
Kropfsberg. 

No  one  dared  touch  him,  and  so  he  hung 
there  for  twelve  years,  and  all  the  time  venture 
some  boys  and  daring  men  used  to  creep  up 
the  turret  steps  and  stare  awfully  through  the 
chinks  in  the  door  at  that  ghostly  mass  of 
steel  that  held  within  itself  the  body  of  a  mur 
derer  and  suicide,  slowly  returning  to  the  dust 
from  which  it  was  made.  Finally  it  disappeared, 
none  knew  whither,  and  for  another  dozen  years 
the  room  stood  empty  but  for  the  old  furniture 
and  the  rotting  hangings. 

So,  when  the  two  men  climbed  the  stairway  to 
the  haunted  room,  they  found  a  very  different 
state  of  things  from  what  exists  now.  The  room 
was  absolutely  as  it  was  left  the  night  Count 
Albert  burned  the  castle,  except  that  all  trace 


4O  In  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

of  the  suspended  suit  of  armor  and  its  ghastly 
contents  had  vanished. 

No  one  had  dared  to  cross  the  threshold,  and 
I  suppose  that  for  forty  years  no  living  thing  had 
entered  that  dreadful  room. 

On  one  side  stood  a  vast  canopied  bed  of 
black  wood,  the  damask  hangings  of  which 
were  covered  with  mould  and  mildew.  All  the 
clothing  of  the  bed  was  in  perfect  order,  and  on 
it  lay  a  book,  open,  and  face  downward.  The 
only  other  furniture  in  the  room  consisted  of 
several  old  chairs,  a  carved  oak  chest,  and  a  big 
inlaid  table  covered  with  books  and  papers,  and 
on  one  corner  two  or  three  bottles  with  dark 
solid  sediment  at  the  bottom,  and  a  glass,  also 
dark  with  the  dregs  of  wine  that  had  been  poured 
out  almost  half  a  century  before.  The  tapestry 
on  the  walls  was  green  with  mould,  but  hardly 
torn  or  otherwise  defaced,  for  although  the  heavy 
dust  of  forty  years  lay  on  everything  the  room 
had  been  preserved  from  further  harm.  No 
spider  web  was  to  be  seen,  no  trace  of  nib 
bling  mice,  not  even  a  dead  moth  or  fly  on  the 
sills  of  the  diamond-paned  windows ;  life  seemed 
to  have  shunned  the  room  utterly  and  finally. 

The  men  looked  at  the  room  curiously,  and,  I 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  41 

am  sure,  not  without  some  feelings  of  awe  and 
unacknowledged  fear ;  but,  whatever  they  may 
have  felt  of  instinctive  shrinking,  they  said 
nothing,  and  quickly  set  to  work  to  make  the 
room  passably  inhabitable.  They  decided  to 
touch  nothing  that  had  not  absolutely  to  be 
changed,  and  therefore  they  made  for  them 
selves  a  bed  in  one  corner  with  the  mattress 
and  linen  from  the  inn.  In  the  great  fireplace 
they  piled  a  lot  of  wood  on  the  caked  ashes  of 
a  fire  dead  for  forty  years,  turned  the  old  chest 
into  a  table,  and  laid  out  on  it  all  their  arrange 
ments  for  the  evening's  amusement:  food,  two 
or  three  bottles  of  wine,  pipes  and  tobacco,  and 
the  chess-board  that  was  their  inseparable  travel 
ling  companion. 

All  this  they  did  themselves :  the  innkeeper 
would  not  even  come  within  the  walls  of  the 
outer  court;  he  insisted  that  he  had  washed 
his  hands  of  the  whole  affair,  the  silly  dunder 
heads  might  go  to  their  death  their  own  way. 
He  would  not  aid  and  abet  them.  One  of 
the  stable  boys  brought  the  basket  of  food 
and  the  wood  and  the  bed  up  the  winding 
stone  stairs,  to  be  sure,  but  neither  money  nor 
prayers  nor  threats  would  bring  him  within 


42  In  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

the  walls  of  the  accursed  place,  and  he  stared 
fearfully  at  the  hare-brained  boys  as  they  worked 
around  the  dead  old  room  preparing  for  the  night 
that  was  coming  so  fast. 

At  length  everything  was  in  readiness,  and 
after  a  final  visit  to  the  inn  for  dinner  Rupert 
and  Otto  started  at  sunset  for  the  Keep.  Half 
the  village  went  with  them,  for  Peter  Rosskopf 
had  babbled  the  whole  story  to  an  open-mouthed 
crowd  of  wondering  men  and  women,  and  as  to 
an  execution  the  awe-struck  crowd  followed  the 
two  boys  dumbly,  curious  to  see  if  they  surely 
would  put  their  plan  into  execution.  But  none 
went  farther  than  the  outer  doorway  of  the  stairs, 
for  it  was  already  growing  twilight.  In  absolute 
silence  they  watched  the  two  foolhardy  youths 
with  their  lives  in  their  hands  enter  the  terrible 
Keep,  standing  like  a  tower  in  the  midst  of  the 
piles  of  stones  that  had  once  formed  walls  join 
ing  it  with  the  mass  of  the  castle  beyond.  When 
a  moment  later  a  light  showed  itself  in  the  high 
windows  above,  they  sighed  resignedly  and  went 
their  ways,  to  wait  stolidly  until  morning  should 
come  and  prove  the  truth  of  their  fears  and 
warnings. 

In  the  mean  time  the  ghost  hunters  built  a 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  43 

huge  fire,  lighted  their  many  candles,  and  sat 
down  to  await  developments.  Rupert  afterwards 
told  my  uncle  that  they  really  felt  no  fear  what 
ever,  only  a  contemptuous  curiosity,  and  they 
ate  their  supper  with  good  appetite  and  an  un 
usual  relish.  It  was  a  long  evening.  They 
played  many  games  of  chess,  waiting  for  mid 
night.  Hour  passed  after  hour,  and  nothing 
occurred  to  interrupt  the  monotony  of  the  even 
ing.  Ten,  eleven,  came  and  went, — it  was 
almost  midnight.  They  piled  more  wood  in 
the  fireplace,  lighted  new  candles,  looked  to 
their  pistols  —  and  waited.  The  clocks  in  the 
village  struck  twelve ;  the  sound  coming  muffled 
through  the  high,  deep-embrasured  windows. 
Nothing  happened,  nothing  to  break  the  heavy 
silence;  and  with  a  feeling  of  disappointed 
relief  they  looked  at  each  other  and  acknowl 
edged  that  they  had  met  another  rebuff. 

Finally  they  decided  that  there  was  no  use  in 
sitting  up  and  boring  themselves  any  longer, 
they  had  much  better  rest ;  so  Otto  threw  him 
self  down  on  the  mattress,  falling  almost  im 
mediately  asleep.  Rupert  sat  a  little  longer, 
smoking,  and  watching  the  stars  creep  along 
behind  the  shattered  glass  and  the  bent  leads 


44  1°  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

of  the  lofty  windows ;  watching  the  fire  fall 
together,  and  the  strange  shadows  move  mys 
teriously  on  the  mouldering  walls.  The  iron 
hook  in  the  oak  beam,  that  crossed  the  ceiling 
midway,  fascinated  him,  not  with  fear,  but 
morbidly.  So,  it  was  from  that  hook  that  for 
twelve  years,  twelve  long  years  of  changing 
summer  and  winter,  the  body  of  Count  Albert, 
murderer  and  suicide,  hung  in  its  strange  casing 
of  mediaeval  steel ;  moving  a  little  at  first,  and 
turning  gently  while  the  fire  died  out  on  the 
hearth,  while  the  ruins  of  the  castle  grew  cold, 
and  horrified  peasants  sought  for  the  bodies  of 
the  score  of  gay,  reckless,  wicked  guests  whom 
Count  Albert  had  gathered  in  Kropfsberg  for 
a  last  debauch,  gathered  to  their  terrible  and 
untimely  death.  What  a  strange  and  fiendish 
idea  it  was,  the  young,  handsome  noble  who 
had  ruined  himself  and  his  family  in  the  society 
of  the  splendid  debauchees,  gathering  them  all 
together,  men  and  women  who  had  known  only 
love  and  pleasure,  for  a  glorious  and  awful  riot 
of  luxury,  and  then,  when  they  were  all  danc 
ing  in  the  great  ballroom,  locking  the  doors  and 
burning  the  whole  castle  about  them,  the  while 
he  sat  in  the  great  keep  listening  to  their 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  45 

screams  of  agonized  fear,  watching  the  fire 
sweep  from  wing  to  wing  until  the  whole  mighty 
mass  was  one  enormous  and  awful  pyre,  and 
then,  clothing  himself  in  his  great-great-grand 
father's  armor,  hanging  himself  in  the  midst 
of  the  ruins  of  what  had  been  a  proud  and 
noble  castle.  So  ended  a  great  family,  a  great 
house. 

But  that  was  forty  years  ago. 

He  was  growing  drowsy ;  the  light  flickered 
and  flared  in  the  fireplace ;  one  by  one  the  can 
dles  went  out ;  the  shadows  grew  thick  in  the 
room.  Why  did  that  great  iron  hook  stand  out 
so  plainly?  why  did  that  dark  shadow  dance 
and  quiver  so  mockingly  behind  it  ?  —  why  — 
But  he  ceased  to  wonder  at  anything.  He  was 
asleep. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  woke  almost  im 
mediately;  the  fire  still  burned,  though  low 
and  fitfully  on  the  hearth.  Otto  was  sleeping, 
breathing  quietly  and  regularly;  the  shadows 
had  gathered  close  around  him,  thick  and 
murky;  with  every  passing  moment  the  light 
died  in  the  fireplace;  he  felt  stiff  with  cold. 
In  the  utter  silence  he  heard  the  clock  in  the 
village  strike  two.  He  shivered  with  a  sudden 


46  In  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

and  irresistible  feeling  of  fear,  and  abruptly 
turned  and  looked  towards  the  hook  in  the 
ceiling. 

Yes,  It  was  there.  He  knew  that  It  would 
be.  It  seemed  quite  natural,  he  would  have 
been  disappointed  had  he  seen  nothing  ;  but 
now  he  knew  that  the  story  was  true,  knew  that 
he  was  wrong,  and  that  the  dead  do  sometimes 
return  to  earth,  for  there,  in  the  fast-deepening 
shadow,  hung  the  black  mass  of  wrought  steel, 
turning  a  little  now  and  then,  with  the  light 
nickering  on  the  tarnished  and  rusty  metal. 
He  watched  it  quietly;  he  hardly  felt  afraid; 
it  was  rather  a  sentiment  of  sadness  and  fa 
tality  that  filled  him,  of  gloomy  forebodings 
of  something  unknown,  unimaginable.  He  sat 
and  watched  the  thing  disappear  in  the  gather 
ing  dark,  his  hand  on  his  pistol  as  it  lay  by  him 
on  the  great  chest.  There  was  no  sound  but 
the  regular  breathing  of  the  sleeping  boy  on  the 
mattress. 

It  had  grown  absolutely  dark  ;  a  bat  fluttered 
against  the  broken  glass  of  the  window.  He 
wondered  if  he  was  growing  mad,  for  — he  hes 
itated  to  acknowledge  it  to  himself  —  he  heard 
music ;  far,  curious  music,  a  strange  and  luxu- 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  47 

rious  dance,  very  faint,  very  vague,  but  unmis 
takable. 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  came  a  jagged  line 
of  fire  down  the  blank  wall  opposite  him,  a  line 
that  remained,  that  grew  wider,  that  let  a  pale 
cold  light  into  the  room,  showing  him  now  all 
its  details,  —  the  empty  fireplace,  where  a  thin 
smoke  rose  in  a  spiral  from  a  bit  of  charred 
wood,  the  mass  of  the  great  bed,  and,  in  the 
very  middle,  black  against  the  curious  bright 
ness,  the  armored  man,  or  ghost,  or  devil,  stand 
ing,  not  suspended,  beneath  the  rusty  hook. 
And  with  the  rending  of  the  wall  the  music 
grew  more  distinct,  though  sounding  still  very, 
very  far  away. 

Count  Albert  raised  his  mailed  hand  and 
beckoned  to  him;  then  turned,  and  stood  in 
the  riven  wall. 

Without  a  word,  Rupert  rose  and  followed 
him,  his  pistol  in  hand.  Count  Albert  passed 
through  the  mighty  wall  and  disappeared  in 
the  unearthly  light.  Rupert  followed  mechani 
cally.  He  felt  the  crushing  of  the  mortar 
beneath  his  feet,  the  roughness  of  the  jagged 
wall  where  he  rested  his  hand  to  steady 
himself. 


48  In  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

'The  keep  rose  absolutely  isolated  among  the 
ruins,  yet  on  passing  through  the  wall  Rupert 
found  himself  in  a  long,  uneven  corridor,  the 
floor  of  which  was  warped  and  sagging,  while 
the  walls  were  covered  on  one  side  with  big 
faded  portraits  of  an  inferior  quality,  like  those 
in  the  corridor  that  connects  the  Pitti  and  Uffizzi 
in  Florence.  Before  him  moved  the  figure  of 
Count  Albert, — a  black  silhouette  in  the  ever- 
increasing  light.  And  always  the  music  grew 
stronger  and  stranger,  a  mad,  evil,  seductive 
dance  that  bewitched  even  while  it  disgusted. 

In  a  final  blaze  of  vivid,  intolerable  light,  in 
a  burst  of  hellish  music  that  might  have  come 
from  Bedlam,  Rupert  stepped  from  the  corri 
dor  into  a  vast  and  curious  room  where  at 
first  he  saw  nothing,  distinguished  nothing  but 
a  mad,  seething  whirl  of  sweeping  figures, 
white,  in  a  white  room,  under  white  light, 
Count  Albert  standing  before  him,  the  only 
dark  object  to  be  seen.  As  his  eyes  grew 
accustomed  to  the  fearful  brightness,  he  knew 
that  he  was  looking  on  a  dance  such  as  the 
damned  might  see  in  hell,  but  such  as  no  liv 
ing  man  had  ever  seen  before. 

Around  the  long,  narrow  hall,  under  the  fear- 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  49 

ful  light  that  came  from  nowhere,  but  was  omni 
present,  swept  a  rushing  stream  of  unspeakable 
horrors,  dancing  insanely,  laughing,  gibbering 
hideously;  the  dead  of  forty  years.  White, 
polished  skeletons,  bare  of  flesh  and  vesture, 
skeletons  clothed  in  the  dreadful  rags  of  dried 
and  rattling  sinews,  the  tags  of  tattering  grave- 
clothes  flaunting  behind  them.  These  were  the 
dead  of  many  years  ago.  Then  the  dead  of  more 
recent  times,  with  yellow  bones  showing  only 
here  and  there,  the  long  and  insecure  hair  of 
their  hideous  heads  writhing  in  the  beating 
air.  Then  green  and  gray  horrors,  bloated 
and  shapeless,  stained  with  earth  or  dripping 
with  spattering  water;  and  here  and  there 
white,  beautiful  things,  like  chiselled  ivory,  the 
dead  of  yesterday,  locked  it  may  be,  in  the 
mummy  arms  of  rattling  skeletons. 

Round  and  round  the  cursed  room,  a  swaying, 
swirling  maelstrom  of  death,  while  the  air  grew 
thick  with  miasma,  the  floor  foul  with  shreds  of 
shrouds,  and  yellow  parchment,  clattering  bones, 
and  wisps  of  tangled  hair. 

And  in  the  very  midst  of  this  ring  of  death,  a 
sight  not  for  words  nor  for  thought,  a  sight  to 
blast  forever  the  mind  of  the  man  who  looked 


50  In  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

upon  it:  a  leaping,  writhing  dance  of  Count 
Albert's  victims,  the  score  of  beautiful  women 
and  reckless  men  who  danced  to  their  awful 
death  while  the  castle  burned  around  them, 
charred  and  shapeless  now,  a  living  charnel- 
house  of  nameless  horror. 

Count  Albert,  who  had  stood  silent  and 
gloomy,  watching  the  dance  of  the  damned, 
turned  to  Rupert,  and  for  the  first  time  spoke. 

"  We  are  ready  for  you  now ;  dance  !  " 

A  prancing  horror,  dead  some  dozen  years, 
perhaps,  flaunted  from  the  rushing  river  of 
the  dead,  and  leered  at  Rupert  with  eyeless 
skull. 

"  Dance ! " 

Rupert  stood  frozen,  motionless. 

"  Dance ! " 

His  hard  lips  moved.  "  Not  if  the  devil  came 
from  hell  to  make  me." 

Count  Albert  swept  his  vast  two-handed 
sword  into  the  foetid  air  while  the  tide  of 
corruption  paused  in  its  swirling,  and  swept 
down  on  Rupert  with  gibbering  grins. 

The  room,  and  the  howling  dead,  and  the 
black  portent  before  him  circled  dizzily  around, 
as  with  a  last  effort  of  departing  consciousness 


In  Kropfsberg  Keep.  51 

he  drew  his  pistol  and  fired  full  in  the  face  of 
Count  Albert. 

Perfect  silence,  perfect  darkness;  not  a 
breath,  not  a  sound :  the  dead  stillness  of  a 
long-sealed  tomb.  Rupert  lay  on  his  back, 
stunned,  helpless,  his  pistol  clenched  in  his 
frozen  hand,  a  smell  of  powder  in  the  black 
air.  Where  was  he?  Dead?  In  hell?  He 
reached  his  hand  out  cautiously;  it  fell  on 
dusty  boards.  Outside,  far  away,  a  clock 
struck  three.  Had  he  dreamed?  Of  course; 
but  how  ghastly  a  dream !  With  chattering 
teeth  he  called  softly, — 

"  Otto ! " 

There  was  no  reply,  and  none  when  he  called 
again  and  again.  He  staggered  weakly  to  his 
feet,  groping  for  matches  and  candles.  A  panic 
of  abject  terror  came  on  him ;  the  matches 
were  gone!  He  turned  towards  the  fireplace: 
a  single  coal  glowed  in  the  white  ashes.  He 
swept  a  mass  of  papers  and  dusty  books  from 
the  table,  and  with  trembling  hands  cowered 
over  the  embers,  until  he  succeeded  in  lighting 
the  dry  tinder.  Then  he  piled  the  old  books 
on  the  blaze,  and  looked  fearfully  around. 


52  In  Kropfsberg  Keep. 

No  :  It  was  gone,  —  thank  God  for  that;  the 
hook  was  empty. 

But  why  did  Otto  sleep  so  soundly  ;  why  did 
he  not  awake  ? 

He  stepped  unsteadily  across  the  room  in  the 
flaring  light  of  the  burning  books,  and  knelt  by 
the  mattress. 

So  they  found  him  in  the  morning,  when  no 
one  came  to  the  inn  from  Kropfsberg  Keep, 
and  the  quaking  Peter  Rosskopf  arranged  a 
relief  party;  —  found  him  kneeling  beside  the 
mattress  where  Otto  lay,  shot  in  the  throat 
and  quite  dead. 


THE   WHITE   VILLA. 


The  White  Villa. 


WHEN  we  left  Naples  on  the  8.10  train  for 
Paestum,  Tom  and  I,  we  fully  intended  return 
ing  by  the  2.46.  Not  because  two  hours  time 
seemed  enough  wherein  to  exhaust  the  interests 
of  those  deathless  ruins  of  a  dead  civilization, 
but  simply  for  the  reason  that,  as  our  Indicatore 
informed  us,  there  was  but  one  other  train,  and 
that  at  6. 1 1,  which  would  land  us  in  Naples  too 
late  for  the  dinner  at  the  Turners  and  the  San 
Carlo  afterwards.  Not  that  I  cared  in  the 
least  for  the  dinner  or  the  theatre ;  but  then,  I 
was  not  so  obviously  in  Miss  Turner's  good 
graces  as  Tom  Rendel  was,  which  made  a 
difference. 

However,  we  had  promised,  so  that  was  an 
end  of  it. 

This  was  in  the  spring  of  '88,  and  at  that 
time  the  railroad,  which  was  being  pushed 


56  The  White  Villa. 

onward  to  Reggio,  whereby  travellers  to  Sicily 
might  be  spared  the  agonies  of  a  night  on  the 
fickle  Mediterranean,  reached  no  farther  than 
Agropoli,  some  twenty  miles  beyond  Paestum  ; 
but  although  the  trains  were  as  yet  few  and 
slow,  we  accepted  the  half -finished  road  with 
gratitude,  for  it  penetrated  the  very  centre  of 
Campanian  brigandage,  and  made  it  possible  for 
us  to  see  the  matchless  temples  in  safety,  while 
a  few  years  before  it  was  necessary  for  intend 
ing  visitors  to  obtain  a  military  escort  from  the 
Government;  and  military  escorts  are  not  for 
young  architects. 

So  we  set  off  contentedly,  that  white  May 
morning,  determined  to  make  the  best  of  our 
few  hours,  little  thinking  that  before  we  saw 
Naples  again  we  were  to  witness  things  that 
perhaps  no  American  had  ever  seen  before. 

For  a  moment,  when  we  left  the  train  at 
"  Pesto,"  and  started  to  walk  up  the  flowery 
lane  leading  to  the  temples,  we  were  almost 
inclined  to  curse  this  same  railroad.  We  had 
thought,  in  our  innocence,  that  we  should  be 
alone,  that  no  one  else  would  think  of  enduring 
the  long  four  hours'  ride  from  Naples  just  to  spend 
two  hours  in  the  ruins  of  these  temples ;  but 


The  White  Villa.  57 

the  event  proved  our  unwisdom.  We  were  not 
alone.  It  was  a  compact  little  party  of  conven 
tional  sight-seers  that  accompanied  us.  The  in 
evitable  English  family  with  the  three  daughters, 
prominent  of  teeth,  flowing  of  hair,  aggressive  of 
scarlet  Murrays  and  Baedekers ;  the  two  blond 
and  untidy  Germans  ;  a  French  couple  from  the 
pages  of  La  Vie  Parisienne ;  and  our  "  old  man 
of  the  sea,"  the  white-bearded  Presbyterian 
minister  from  Pennsylvania  who  had  made  our 
life  miserable  in  Rome  at  the  time  of  the  Pope's 
Jubilee.  Fortunately  for  us,  this  terrible  old  man 
had  fastened  himself  upon  a  party  of  Amer 
ican  school-teachers  travelling  en  Cook,  and 
for  the  time  we  were  safe ;  but  our  vision  of 
two  hours  of  dreamy  solitude  faded  lamentably 
away. 

Yet  how  beautiful  it  was !  this  golden  meadow 
walled  with  far,  violet  mountains,  breathless 
under  a  May  sun ;  and  in  the  midst,  rising  from 
tangles  of  asphodel  and  acanthus,  vast  in  the 
vacant  plain,  three  temples,  one  silver  gray,  one 
golden  gray,  and  one  flushed  with  intangible 
rose.  And  all  around  nothing  but  velvet 
meadows  stretching  from  the  dim  mountains 
behind,  away  to  the  sea,  that  showed  only  as  a 


58  The  White  Villa. 

thin  line  of  silver  just  over  the  edge  of  the  still 
grass. 

The  tide  of  tourists  swept  noisily  through 
the  Basilica  and  the  temple  of  Poseidon  across 
the  meadow  to  the  distant  temple  of  Ceres,  and 
Tom  and  I  were  left  alone  to  drink  in  all  the 
fine  wine  of  dreams  that  was  possible  in  the 
time  left  us.  We  gave  but  little  space  to 
examining  the  temples  the  tourists  had  left,  but 
in  a  few  moments  found  ourselves  lying  in  the 
grass  to  the  east  of  Poseidon,  looking  dimly  out 
towards  the  sea,  heard  now,  but  not  seen,  —  a 
vague  and  pulsating  murmur  that  blended  with 
the  humming  of  bees  all  about  us. 

A  small  shepherd  boy,  with  a  woolly  dog, 
made  shy  advances  of  friendship,  and  in  a  little 
time  we  had  set  him  to  gathering  flowers  for  us  : 
asphodels  and  bee-orchids,  anemones,  and  the 
little  thin  green  iris  so  fairylike  and  frail.  The 
murmur  of  the  tourist  crowd  had  merged  itself 
in  the  moan  of  the  sea,  and  it  was  very  still ; 
suddenly  I  heard  the  words  I  had  been  waiting 
for,  —  the  suggestion  I  had  refrained  from  mak 
ing  myself,  for  I  knew  Thomas. 

"  I  say,  old  man,  shall  we  let  the  2.46  go  to 
thunder  ? " 


The  White  Villa.  59 

I  chuckled  to  myself.     "  But  the  Turners  ?  " 

"  They  be  blowed,  we  can  tell  them  we 
missed  the  train." 

"That  is  just  exactly  what  we  shall  do,"  I 
said,  pulling  out  my  watch,  "  unless  we  start  for 
the  station  right  now." 

But  Tom  drew  an  acanthus  leaf  across  his 
face  and  showed  no  signs  of  moving ;  so  I  filled 
my  pipe  again,  and  we  missed  the  train. 

As  the  sun  dropped  lower  towards  the  sea, 
changing  its  silver  line  to  gold,  we  pulled  our 
selves  together,  and  for  an  hour  or  more 
sketched  vigorously;  but  the  mood  was  not  on 
us.  It  was  "  too  jolly  fine  to  waste  time  work 
ing,"  as  Tom  said  ;  so  we  started  off  to  explore 
the  single  street  of  the  squalid  town  of  Pesto 
that  was  lost  within  the  walls  of  dead  Posei- 
donia.  It  was  not  a  pretty  village,  —  if  you 
can  call  a  rut-riven  lane  and  a  dozen  houses  a 
village,  —  nor  were  the  inhabitants  thereof  reas 
suring  in  appearance.  There  was  no  sign  of 
a  church,  — nothing  but  dirty  huts,  and  in  the 
midst,  one  of  two  stories,  rejoicing  in  the  name 
of  Albergo  del  Sole,  the  first  story  of  which  was 
a  black  and  cavernous  smithy,  where  certain 
swarthy  knaves,  looking  like  banditti  out  of  a 
job,  sat  smoking  sulkily. 


60  The  White  Villa. 

"  We  might  stay  here  all  night,"  said  Tom, 
grinning  askance  at  this  choice  company ;  but 
his  suggestion  was  not  received  with  enthusiasm. 

Down  where  the  lane  from  the  station  joined 
the  main  road  stood  the  only  sign  of  modern 
civilization,  —  a  great  square  structure,  half 
villa,  half  fortress,  with  round  turrets  on  its 
four  corners,  and  a  ten-foot  wall  surrounding  it. 
There  were  no  windows  in  its  first  story,  so  far 
as  we  could  see,  and  it  had  evidently  been  at 
one  time  the  fortified  villa  of  some  Campanian 
noble.  Now,  however,  whether  because  brig 
andage  had  been  stamped  out,  or  because  the 
villa  was  empty  and  deserted,  it  was  no  longer 
formidable;  the  gates  of  the  great  wall  hung 
sagging  on  their  hinges,  brambles  growing  all 
over  them,  and  many  of  the  windows  in  the 
upper  story  were  broken  and  black.  It  was  a 
strange  place,  weird  and  mysterious,  and  we 
looked  at  it  curiously.  "  There  is  a  story  about 
that  place,"  said  Tom,  with  conviction. 

It  was  growing  late:  the  sun  was  near  the 
edge  of  the  sea  as  we  walked  down  the  ivy- 
grown  walls  of  the  vanished  city  for  the  last 
time,  and  as  we  turned  back,  a  red  flush  poured 
from  the  west,  and  painted  the  Doric  temples 


The  White  Villa.  61 

in  pallid  rose  against  the  evanescent  purple  of 
the  Apennines.  Already  a  thin  mist  was  rising 
from  the  meadows,  and  the  temples  hung  pink 
in  the  misty  grayness. 

It  was  a  sorrow  to  leave  the  beautiful  things, 
but  we  could. run  no  risk  of  missing  this  last 
train,  so  we  walked  slowly  back  towards  the 
temples. 

"  What  is  that  Johnny  waving  his  arm  at  us 
for  ?  "  asked  Tom,  suddenly. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  We  are  not  on  his 
land,  and  the  walls  don't  matter." 

We  pulled  out  our  watches  simultaneously. 

"  What  time  are  you  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Six  minutes  before  six." 

"  And  I  am  seven  minutes.  It  can't  take  us 
all  that  time  to  walk  to  the  station." 

"  Are  you  sure  the  train  goes  at  6.1 1  ?  " 

"  Dead  sure,"  I  answered;  and  showed  him 
the  Indicatore. 

By  this  time  a  woman  and  two  children  were 
shrieking  at  us  hysterically  ;  but  what  they  said 
I  had  no  idea,  their  Italian  being  of  a  strange 
and  awful  nature. 

"  Look  here,"  I  said,  "  let 's  run  ;  perhaps  our 
watches  are  both  slow." 


62  The  White  Villa. 

"  Or  — perhaps  the  time-table  is  changed." 

Then  we  ran,  and  the  populace  cheered  and 
shouted  with  enthusiasm ;  our  dignified  run 
became  a  panic-stricken  rout,  for  as  we  turned 
into  the  lane,  smoke  was  rising  from  beyond 
the  bank  that  hid  the  railroad;  a  bell  rang; 
we  were  so  near  that  we  could  hear  the  in 
terrogative  Pronte?  the  impatient  Partenzal 
and  the  definitive  Andiamo!  But  the  train 
was  five  hundred  yards  away,  steaming  towards 
Naples,  when  we  plunged  into  the  station  as  the 
clock  struck  six,  and  yelled  for  the  station- 
master. 

He  came,  and  we  indulged  in  crimination  and 
recrimination. 

When  we  could  regard  the  situation  calmly,  it 
became  apparent  that  the  time-table  had  been 
changed  two  days  before,  the  6.H  now  leav 
ing  at  5.58.  A  facchino  came  in,  and  we  four 
sat  down  and  regarded  the  situation  judicially. 

"  Was  there  any  other  train  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Could  we  stay  at  the  Albergo  del  Sole?" 

A  forefinger  drawn  across  the  throat  by  the 
Capo  Stazione  with  a  significant "  cluck  "  closed 
that  question. 


The  White  Villa.  63 

"  Then  we  must  stay  with  you  here  at  the 
station." 

"  But,  Signori,  I  am  not  married.  I  live  here 
only  with  the  facchini.  I  have  only  one  room 
to  sleep  in.  It  is  impossible  !  " 

"  But  we  must  sleep  somewhere,  likewise  eat. 
What  can  we  do  ?  "  and  we  shifted  the  responsi 
bility  deftly  on  the  shoulders  of  the  poor  old 
man,  who  was  growing  excited  again. 

He  trotted  nervously  up  and  down  the  station 
for  a  minute,  then  he  called  ftizfacchino.  "  Giu 
seppe,  go  up  to  the  villa  and  ask  if  \wQforestieri 
who  have  missed  the  last  train  can  stay  there  all 
night !  " 

Protests  were  useless.  The  facchino  was 
gone,  and  we  waited  anxiously  for  his  return. 
It  seemed  as  though  he  would  never  come. 
Darkness  had  fallen,  and  the  moon  was  rising 
over  the  mountains.  At  last  he  appeared. 

"The  Signori  may  stay  all  night,  and  wel 
come;  but  they  cannot  come  to  dinner,  for 
there  is  nothing  in  the  house  to  eat!" 

This  was  not  reassuring,  and  again  the  old 
station-master  lost  himself  in  meditation.  The 
results  were  admirable,  for  in  a  little  time  the 
table  in  the  waiting-room  had  been  trans- 


64  The  White  Villa. 

formed  into  a  dining-table,  and  Tom  and  I 
were  ravenously  devouring  a  big  omelette,  and 
bread  and  cheese,  and  drinking  a  most  shock 
ing  sour  wine  as  though  it  were  Chateau  Yquem. 
A  facchino  served  us,  with  clumsy  good-will ;  and 
when  we  had  induced  our  nervous  old  host  to 
sit  down  with  us  and  partake  of  his  own  hospi 
tality,  we  succeeded  in  forming  a  passably  jolly 
dinner-party,  forgetting  over  our  sour  wine  and 
cigarettes  the  coming  hours  from  ten  until  sun 
rise,  which  lay  before  us  in  a  dubious  mist. 

It  was  with  crowding  apprehensions  which  we 
strove  in  vain  to  joke  away  that  we  set  out  at 
last  to  retrace  our  steps  to  the  mysterious  villa, 
the  facchino  Giuseppe  leading  the  way.  By 
this  time  the  moon  was  well  overhead,  and  just 
behind  us  as  we  tramped  up  the  dewy  lane, 
white  in  the  moonlight  between  the  ink-black 
hedgerows  on  either  side.  How  still  it  was ! 
Not  a  breath  of  air,  not  a  sound  of  life ;  only 
the  awful  silence  that  had  lain  almost  unbroken 
for  two  thousand  years  over  this  vast  graveyard 
of  a  dead  world. 

As  we  passed  between  the  shattered  gates 
and  wound  our  way  in  the  moonlight  through 
the  maze  of  gnarled  fruit-trees,  decaying  farm 


The  White  Villa.  65 

implements  and  piles  of  lumber,  towards  the 
small  door  that  formed  the  only  opening  in 
the  first  story  of  this  deserted  fortress,  the 
cold  silence  was  shattered  by  the  harsh  bay 
ing  of  dogs  somewhere  in  the  distance  to  the 
right,  beyond  the  barns  that  formed  one  side 
of  the  court.  From  the  villa  came  neither 
light  nor  sound.  Giuseppe  knocked  at  the 
weather-worn  door,  and  the  sound  echoed  cav- 
ernously  within  ;  but  there  was  no  other  reply. 
He  knocked  again  and  again,  and  at  length 
we  heard  the  rasping  jar  of  sliding  bolts,  and 
the  door  opened  a  little,  showing  an  old,  old 
man,  bent  with  age  and  gaunt  with  malaria. 
Over  his  head  he  held  a  big  Roman  lamp, 
with  three  wicks,  that  cast  strange  shadows 
on  his  face,  —  a  face  that  was  harmless  in  its 
senility,  but  intolerably  sad.  He  made  no 
reply  to  our  timid  salutations,  but  motioned 
tremblingly  to  us  to  enter;  and  with  a  last 
"good-night"  to  Giuseppe  we  obeyed,  and 
stood  half-way  up  the  stone  stairs  that  led 
directly  from  the  door,  while  the  old  man 
tediously  shot  every  bolt  and  adjusted  the 
heavy  bar. 

Then  we  followed  him  in  the  semi-darkness 


66  The  White  Villa. 

up  the  steps  into  what  had  been  the  great 
hall  of  the  villa.  A  fire  was  burning  in  a 
great  fireplace  so  beautiful  in  design  that 
Tom  and  I  looked  at  each  other  with  interest. 
By  its  fitful  light  we  could  see  that  we  were 
in  a  huge  circular  room  covered  by  a  flat, 
saucer-shaped  dome,  —  a  room  that  must  once 
have  been  superb  and  splendid,  but  that  now 
was  a  lamentable  wreck.  The  frescoes  on  the 
dome  were  stained  and  mildewed,  and  here 
and  there  the  plaster  was  gone  altogether ;  the 
carved  doorways  that  led  out  on  all  sides  had  lost 
half  the  gold  with  which  they  had  once  been 
covered,  and  the  floor  was  of  brick,  sunken 
into  treacherous  valleys.  Rough  chests,  piles 
of  old  newspapers,  fragments  of  harnesses, 
farm  implements,  a  heap  of  rusty  carbines  and 
cutlasses,  nameless  litter  of  every  possible  kind, 
made  the  room  into  a  wilderness  which  under 
the  firelight  seemed  even  more  picturesque  than 
it  really  was.  And  on  this  inexpressible  con 
fusion  of  lumber  the  pale  shapes  of  the  sev 
enteenth-century  nymphs,  startling  in  their 
weather-stained  nudity,  looked  down  with  va 
cant  smiles. 

For  a  few   moments  we  warmed  ourselves 


The  White  Villa.  67 

before  the  fire ;  and  then,  in  the  same  dejected 
silence,  the  old  man  led  the  way  to  one  of  the 
many  doors,  handed  us  a  brass  lamp,  and  with 
a  stiff  bow  turned  his  back  on  us. 

Once  in  our  room  alone,  Tom  and  I  looked  at 
each  other  with  faces  that  expressed  the  most 
complex  emotions. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  rum  goes,"  said  Tom,  "  this 
is  the  rummiest  go  I  ever  experienced  !  " 

"  Right,  my  boy;  as  you  very  justly  remark,  we 
are  in  for  it.  Help  me  shut  this  door,  and  then 
we  will  reconnoitre,  take  account  of  stock,  and 
size  up  our  chances." 

But  the  door  showed  no  sign  of  closing;  it 
grated  on  the  brick  floor  and  stuck  in  the 
warped  casing,  and  it  took  our  united  efforts 
to  jam  the  two  inches  of  oak  into  its  place,  and 
turn  the  enormous  old  key  in  its  rusty  lock. 

"  Better  now,  much  better  now,"  said  Tom ; 
"  now  let  us  see  where  we  are." 

The  room  was  easily  twenty-five  feet  square, 
and  high  in  proportion;  evidently  it  had  been 
a  state  apartment,  for  the  walls  were  covered 
with  carved  panelling  that  had  once  been  white 
and  gold,  with  mirrors  in  the  panels,  the  wood 
now  stained  every  imaginable  color,  the  mirrors 


68  The  White  Villa. 

cracked  and  broken,  and  dull  with  mildew.  A 
big  fire  had  just  been  lighted  in  the  fireplace, 
the  shutters  were  closed,  and  although  the  only 
furniture  consisted  of  two  massive  bedsteads, 
and  a  chair  with  one  leg  shorter  than  the  others, 
the  room  seemed  almost  comfortable. 

I  opened  one  of  the  shutters,  that  closed  the 
great  windows  that  ran  from  the  floor  almost  to 
the  ceiling,  and  nearly  fell  through  the  cracked 
glass  into  the  floorless  balcony.  "  Tom,  come 
here,  quick,"  I  cried;  and  for  a  few  minutes 
neither  of  us  thought  about  our  dubious  sur 
roundings,  for  we  were  looking  at  Paestum  by 
moonlight. 

A  flat,  white  mist,  like  water,  lay  over  the  en 
tire  meadow;  from  the  midst  rose  against  the 
blue-black  sky  the  three  ghostly  temples,  black 
and  silver  in  the  vivid  moonlight,  floating,  it 
seemed,  in  the  fog;  and  behind  them,  seen  in 
broken  glints  between  the  pallid  shafts,  stretched 
the  line  of  the  silver  sea. 

Perfect  silence, — the  silence  of  implacable 
death. 

We  watched  the  white  tide  of  mist  rise  around 
the  temples,  until  we  were  chilled  through,  and 
so  presently  went  to  bed.  There  was  but  one 


The  White  Villa.  69 

door  in  the  room,  and  that  was  securely  locked  ; 
the  great  windows  were  twenty  feet  from  the 
ground,  so  we  felt  reasonably  safe  from  all 
possible  attack. 

In  a  few  minutes  Tom  was  asleep  and  breath 
ing  audibly;  but  my  constitution  is  more  ner 
vous  than  his,  and  I  lay  awake  for  some 
little  time,  thinking  of  our  curious  adventure 
and  of  its  possible  outcome.  Finally,  I  fell 
asleep,  —  for  how  long  I  do  not  know :  but  I 
woke  with  the  feeling  that  some  one  had  tried 
the  handle  of  the  door.  The  fire  had  fallen  into 
a  heap  of  coals  which  cast  a  red  glow  in  the 
room,  whereby  I  could  see  dimly  the  outline  of 
Tom's  bed,  the  broken-legged  chair  in  front  of 
the  fireplace,  and  the  door  in  its  deep  casing  by 
the  chimney,  directly  in  front  of  my  bed.  I  sat 
up,  nervous  from  my  sudden  awakening  under 
these  strange  circumstances,  and  stared  at  the 
door.  The  latch  rattled,  and  the  door  swung 
smoothly  open.  I  began  to  shiver  coldly.  That 
door  was  locked ;  Tom  and  I  had  all  we  could 
do  to  jam  it  together  and  lock  it.  But  we  did 
lock  it ;  and  now  it  was  opening  silently.  In 
a  minute  more  it  as  silently  closed. 

Then  I  heard  a  footstep,  —  I  swear  I  heard  a 


yo  The  White  Villa. 

footstep  in  the  room,  and  with  it  the  frou-frou 
of  trailing  skirts;  my  breath  stopped  and  my 
teeth  grated  against  each  other  as  I  heard  the 
soft  footfalls  and  the  feminine  rustle  pass  along 
the  room  towards  the  fireplace.  My  eyes  saw 
nothing ;  yet  there  was  enough  light  in  the  room 
for  me  to  distinguish  the  pattern  on  the  carved 
panels  of  the  door.  The  steps  stopped  by  the 
fire,  and  I  saw  the  broken-legged  chair  lean  to 
the  left,  with  a  little  jar  as  its  short  leg  touched 
the  floor. 

I  sat  still,  frozen,  motionless,  staring  at  the 
vacancy  that  was  filled  with  such  terror  for  me ; 
and  as  I  looked,  the  seat  of  the  chair  creaked, 
and  it  came  back  to  its  upright  position  again. 

And  then  the  footsteps  came  down  the  room 
lightly,  towards  the  window;  there  was  a  pause, 
and  then  the  great  shutters  swung  back,  and 
the  white  moonlight  poured  in.  Its  brilliancy 
was  unbroken  by  any  shadow,  by  any  sign  of 
material  substance. 

I  tried  to  cry  out,  to  make  some  sound,  to 
awaken  Tom ;  this  sense  of  utter  loneliness  in 
the  presence  of  the  Inexplicable  was  maddening. 
I  don't  know  whether  my  lips  obeyed  my  will 
or  no ;  at  all  events,  Tom  lay  motionless,  with 
his  deaf  ear  up,  and  gave  no  sign. 


The  White  Villa.  71 

The  shutters  closed  as  silently  as  they  had 
opened;  the  moonlight  was  gone,  the  firelight 
also,  and  in  utter  darkness  I  waited.  If  I  could 
only  see  !  If  something  were  visible,  I  should 
not  mind  it  so  much ;  but  this  ghastly  hearing  of 
every  little  sound,  every  rustle  of  a  gown,  every 
breath,  yet  seeing  nothing,  was  soul-destroying. 
I  think  in  my  abject  terror  I  prayed  that  I  might 
see,  only  see  ;  but  the  darkness  was  unbroken. 

Then  the  footsteps  began  to  waver  fitfully, 
and  I  heard  the  rustle  of  garments  sliding  to 
the  floor,  the  clatter  of  little  shoes  flung  down, 
the  rattle  of  buttons,  and  of  metal  against  wood. 

Rigors  shot  over  me,  and  my  whole  body 
shivered  with  collapse  as  I  sank  back  on  the 
pillow,  waiting  with  every  nerve  tense,  listening 
with  all  my  life. 

The  coverlid  was  turned  back  beside  me,  and 
in  another  moment  the  great  bed  sank  a  little  as 
something  slipped  between  the  sheets  with  an 
audible  sigh. 

I  called  to  my  aid  every  atom  of  remaining 
strength,  and,  with  a  cry  that  shivered  between 
my  clattering  teeth,  I  hurled  myself  headlong 
from  the  bed  on  to  the  floor. 

I  must  have  lain  for  some  time  stunned  and 


72  The  White  Villa. 

unconscious,  for  when  I  finally  came  to  myself 
it  was  cold  in  the  room,  there  was  no  last  glow 
of  lingering  coals  in  the  fireplace,  and  I  was  stiff 
with  chill. 

It  all  flashed  over  me  like  the  haunting  of  a 
heavy  dream.  I  laughed  a  little  at  the  dim 
memory,  with  the  thought,  "  I  must  try  to  recol 
lect  all  the  details ;  they  will  do  to  tell  Tom," 
and  rose  stiffly  to  return  to  bed,  when  —  there 
it  was  again,  and  my  heart  stopped,  —  the  hand 
on  the  door. 

I  paused  and  listened.  The  door  opened 
with  a  muffled  creak,  closed  again,  and  I  heard 
the  lock  turn  rustily.  I  would  have  died  now 
before  getting  into  that  bed  again;  but  there 
was  terror  equally  without ;  so  I  stood  trem 
bling  and  listened,  —  listened  to  heavy,  stealthy 
steps  creeping  along  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bed.  I  clutched  the  coverlid,  staring  across 
into  the  dark. 

There  was  a  rush  in  the  air  by  my  face,  the 
sound  of  a  blow,  and  simultaneously  a  shriek,  so 
awful,  so  despairing,  so  blood-curdling  that  I 
felt  my  senses  leaving  me  again  as  I  sank 
crouching  on  the  floor  by  the  bed. 

And  then  began  the  awful  duel,   the  duel 


The  White  Villa.  73 

of  invisible,  audible  shapes ;  of  things  that 
shrieked  and  raved,  mingling  thin,  feminine 
cries  with  low,  stifled  curses  and  indistinguish 
able  words.  Round  and  round  the  room,  foot 
steps  chasing  footsteps  in  the  ghastly  night, 
now  away  by  Tom's  bed,  now  rushing  swiftly 
down  the  great  room  until  I  felt  the  flash  of 
swirling  drapery  on  my  hard  lips.  Round 
and  round,  turning  and  twisting  till  my  brain 
whirled  with  the  mad  cries. 

They  were  coming  nearer.  I  felt  the  jar  of 
their  feet  on  the  floor  beside  me.  Came  one 
long,  gurgling  moan  close  over  my  head,  and 
then,  crushing  down  upon  me,  the  weight  of  a 
collapsing  body ;  there  was  long  hair  over  my 
face,  and  in  my  staring  eyes  ;  and  as  awful  silence 
succeeded  the  less  awful  tumult,  life  went  out, 
and  I  fell  unfathomable  miles  into  nothingness. 

The  gray  dawn  was  sifting  through  the  chinks 
in  the  shutters  when  I  opened  my  eyes  again. 
I  lay  stunned  and  faint,  staring  up  at  the  mouldy 
frescoes  on  the  ceiling,  struggling  to  gather 
together  my  wandering  senses  and  knit  them 
into  something  like  consciousness.  But  now 
as  I  pulled  myself  little  by  little  together  there 
was  no  thought  of  dreams  before  me.  One 


74  The  White  Villa. 

after  another  the  awful  incidents  of  that  un 
speakable  night  came  back,  and  I  lay  incapable 
of  movement,  of  action,  trying  to  piece  to 
gether  the  whirling  fragments  of  memory  that 
circled  dizzily  around  me. 

Little  by  little  it  grew  lighter  in  the  room.  I 
could  see  the  pallid  lines  struggling  through 
the  shutters  behind  me,  grow  stronger  along 
the  broken  and  dusty  floor.  The  tarnished 
mirrors  reflected  dirtily  the  growing  daylight ; 
a  door  closed,  far  away,  and  I  heard  the  crow 
ing  of  a  cock ;  then  by  and  by  the  whistle  of  a 
passing  train. 

Years  seemed  to  have  passed  since  I  first  came 
into  this  terrible  room.  I  had  lost  the  use  of 
my  tongue,  my  voice  refused  to  obey  my  panic- 
stricken  desire  to  cry  out ;  once  or  twice  I  tried 
in  vain  to  force  an  articulate  sound  through  my 
rigid  lips ;  and  when  at  last  a  broken  whisper 
rewarded  my  feverish  struggles,  I  felt  a  strange 
sense  of  great  victory.  How  soundly  he  slept ! 
Ordinarily,  rousing  him  was  no  easy  task,  and 
now  he  revolted  steadily  against  being  awakened 
at  this  untimely  hour.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  called  him  for  ages  almost,  before  I  heard 
him  grunt  sleepily  and  turn  in  bed. 


The  White  Villa.  75 

"Tom,"  I  cried  weakly,  "Tom,  come  and 
help  me ! " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"  Don't  ask,  come  and  help  me  ! " 

"  Fallen  out  of  bed  I  guess  ;"  and  he  laughed 
drowsily. 

My  abject  terror  lest  he  should  go  to  sleep 
again  gave  me  new  strength.  Was  it  the  actual 
physical  paralysis  born  of  killing  fear  that  held 
me  down  ?  I  could  not  have  raised  my  head 
from  the  floor  on  my  life  ;  I  could  only  cry  out 
in  deadly  fear  for  Tom  to  come  and  help  me. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  up  and  get  into  bed  ?  " 
he  answered,  when  I  implored  him  to  come  to 
me.  "  You  have  got  a  bad  nightmare ;  wake 
up!" 

But  something  in  my  voice  roused  him  at  last, 
and  he  came  chuckling  across  the  room,  stop 
ping  to  throw  open  two  of  the  great  shutters  and 
let  a  burst  of  white  light  into  the  room.  He 
climbed  up  on  the  bed  and  peered  over  jeeringly. 
With  the  first  glance  the  laugh  died,  and  he 
leaped  the  bed  and  bent  over  me. 

"  My  God,  man,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
You  are  hurt ! " 


76  The  White  Villa. 

"I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter;  lift  me 
up,  get  me  away  from  here,  and  I  '11  tell  you  all 
I  know." 

"  But,  old  chap,  you  must  be  hurt  awfully ; 
the  floor  is  covered  with  blood  !  " 

He  lifted  my  head  and  held  me  in  his  power 
ful  arms.  I  looked  down  :  a  great  red  stain 
blotted  the  floor  beside  me. 

But,  apart  from  the  black  bruise  on  my  head, 
there  was  no  sign  of  a  wound  on  my  body,  nor 
stain  of  blood  on  my  lips.  In  as  few  words  as 
possible  I  told  him  the  whole  story. 

"  Let's  get  out  of  this,"  he  said  when  I  had 
finished  ;  "  this  is  no  place  for  us.  Brigands  I 
can  stand,  but — " 

He  helped  me  to  dress,  and  as  soon  as  pos 
sible  we  forced  open  the  heavy  door,  the  door  I 
had  seen  turn  so  softly  on  its  hinges  only  a  few 
hours  before,  and  came  out  into  the  great  cir 
cular  hall,  no  less  strange  and  mysterious  now 
in  the  half  light  of  dawn  than  it  had  been  by 
firelight.  The  room  was  empty,  for  it  must 
have  been  very  early,  although  a  fire  already 
blazed  in  the  fireplace.  We  sat  by  the  fire 
some  time,  seeing  no  one.  Presently  slow  foot 
steps  sounded  in  the  stairway,  and  the  old  man 


The  White  Villa.  77 

entered,  silent  as  the  night  before,  nodding  to 
us  civilly,  but  showing  by  no  sign  any  surprise 
which  he  may  have  felt  at  our  early  rising.  In 
absolute  silence  he  moved  around,  preparing 
coffee  for  us  ;  and  when  at  last  the  frugal  break 
fast  was  ready,  and  we  sat  around  the  rough 
table  munching  coarse  bread  and  sipping  the 
black  coffee,  he  would  reply  to  our  overtures 
only  by  monosyllables. 

Any  attempt  at  drawing  from  him  some  facts 
as  to  the  history  of  the  villa  was  received  with 
a  grave  and  frigid  repellence  that  baffled  us ;  and 
we  were  forced  to  say  addio  with  our  hunger  for 
some  explanation  of  the  events  of  the  night  still 
unsatisfied. 

But  we  saw  the  temples  by  sunrise,  when  the 
mistlike  lambent  opals  bathed  the  bases  of  the 
tall  columns  salmon  in  the  morning  light !  It 
was  a  rhapsody  in  the  pale  and  unearthly  colors 
of  Puvis  de  Chavannes  vitalized  and  made  glo 
rious  with  splendid  sunlight ;  the  apotheosis  of 
mist ;  a  vision  never  before  seen,  never  to  be  for 
gotten.  It  was  so  beautiful  that  the  memory  of 
my  ghastly  night  paled  and  faded,  and  it  was  Tom 
who  assailed  the  station-master  with  questions 
while  we  waited  for  the  train  from  Agropoli. 


78  The  White  Villa. 

Luckily  he  was  more  than  loquacious,  he  was 
voluble  under  the  ameliorating  influence  of  the 
money  we  forced  upon  him ;  and  this,  in  few 
words,  was  the  story  he  told  us  while  we  sat  on 
the  platform  smoking,  marvelling  at  the  mists 
that  rose  to  the  east,  now  veiling,  now  revealing 
the  lavender  Apennines. 

"  Is  there  a  story  of  La  Villa  Bianca  ?  " 
"  Ah,  Signori,  certainly ;  and  a  story  very 
strange  and  very  terrible.  It  was  much  time 
ago,  a  hundred,  —  two  hundred  years;  I  do 
not  know.  Well,  the  Duca  di  San  Damiano 
married  a  lady  so  fair,  so  most  beautiful  that 
she  was  called  La  Luna  di  Pesto  ;  but  she  was 
of  the  people,  —  more,  she  was  of  the  banditti : 
her  father  was  of  Calabria,  and  a  terror  of  the 
Campagna.  But  the  Duke  was  young,  and  he 
married  her,  and  for  her  built  the  white  villa ; 
and  it  was  a  wonder  throughout  Campania,  —  you 
have  seen?  It  is  splendid  now,  even  if  a  ruin. 
Well,  it  was  less  than  a  year  after  they  came  to 
the  villa  before  the  Duke  grew  jealous,  —  jealous 
of  the  new  captain  of  the  banditti  who  took  the 
place  of  the  father  of  La  Luna,  himself  killed  in 
a  great  battle  up  there  in  the  mountains.  Was 
there  cause  ?  Who  shall  know  ?  But  there  were 


The  White  Villa.  79 

stories  among  the  people  of  terrible  things  in  the 
villa,  and  how  La  Lima  was  seen  almost  never 
outside  the  walls.  Then  the  Duke  would  go  for 
many  days  to  Napoli,  coining  home  only  now  and 
then  to  the  villa  that  was  become  a  fortress, 
so  many  men  guarded  its  never-opening  gates. 
And  once — it  was  in  the  spring  —  the  Duke  came 
silently  down  from  Napoli,  and  there,  by  the 
three  poplars  you  see  away  towards  the  north, 
his  carriage  was  set  upon  by  armed  men,  and 
he  was  almost  killed ;  but  he  had  with  him 
many  guards,  and  after  a  terrible  fight  the  brig 
ands  were  beaten  off ;  but  before  him,  wounded, 
lay  the  captain,  —  the  man  whom  he  feared  and 
hated.  He  looked  at  him,  lying  there  under  the 
torchlight,  and  in  his  hand  saw  his  own  sword. 
Then  he  became  a  devil :  with  the  same  sword 
he  ran  the  brigand  through,  leaped  in  the  car 
riage,  and,  entering  the  villa,  crept  to  the  cham 
ber  of  La  Luna,  and  killed  her  with  the  sword 
she  had  given  to  her  lover. 

"  This  is  all  the  story  of  the  White  Villa, 
except  that  the  Duke  came  never  again  to 
Pesto.  He  went  back  to  the  king  at  Napoli, 
and  for  many  years  he  was  the  scourge  of 
the  banditti  of  Campania ;  for  the  King  made 


8o  The  White  Villa. 

him  a  general,  and  San  Damiano  was  a  name 
feared  by  the  lawless  and  loved  by  the  peace 
ful,  until  he  was  killed  in  a  battle  down  by 
Mormanno. 

"  And  La  Luna  ?  Some  say  she  conies  back 
to  the  villa,  once  a  year,  when  the  moon  is  full, 
in  the  month  when  she  was  slain ;  for  the  Duke 
buried  her,  they  say,  with  his  own  hands,  in  the 
garden  that  was  once  under  the  window  of  her 
chamber;  and  as  she  diedunshriven,  so  was  she 
buried  without  the  pale  of  the  Church.  There 
fore  she  cannot  sleep  in  peace,  —  non  e  vero  ?  I 
do  not  know  if  the  story  is  true,  but  this  is  the 
story,  Signori,  and  there  is  the  train  for  Napoli. 
Ah,  grazie  !  Signori,  grazie  tanto  /  A  rive- 
derci  /  Signori,  a  rivederci  / ' ' 


SISTER   MADDELENA. 


Sister  Maddelena. 


ACROSS  the  valley  of  the  Oreto  from  Mon- 
reale,  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  just 
above  the  little  village  of  Parco,  lies  the  old 
convent  of  Sta.  Catarina.  From  the  cloister 
terrace  at  Monreale  you  can  see  its  pale  walls 
and  the  slim  campanile  of  its  chapel  rising  from 
the  crowded  citron  and  mulberry  orchards  that 
flourish,  rank  and  wild,  no  longer  cared  for  by 
pious  and  loving  hands.  From  the  rough  road 
that  climbs  the  mountains  to  Assunto,  the  con 
vent  is  invisible,  a  gnarled  and  ragged  olive 
grove  intervening,  and  a  spur  of  cliffs  as  well, 
while  from  Palermo  one  sees  only  the  speck  of 
white,  flashing  in  the  sun,  indistinguishable  from 
the  many  similar  gleams  of  desert  monastery  or 
pauper  village. 

Partly  because  of  this  seclusion,  partly  by 
reason  of  its  extreme  beauty,  partly,  it  may  be, 


84  Sister  Maddelena. 

because  the  present  owners  are  more  than 
charming  and  gracious  in  their  pressing  hos 
pitality,  Sta.  Catarina  seems  to  preserve  an 
element  of  the  poetic,  almost  magical ;  and  as 
I  drove  with  the  Cavaliere  Valguanera  one 
evening  in  March  out  of  Palermo,  along  the 
garden  valley  of  the  Oreto,  then  up  the  moun 
tain  side  where  the  warm  light  of  the  spring 
sunset  swept  across  from  Monreale,  lying 
golden  and  mellow  on  the  luxuriant  growth  of 
figs,  and  olives,  and  orange-trees,  and  fantastic 
cacti,  and  so  up  to  where  the  path  of  the  con 
vent  swung  off  to  the  right  round  a  dizzy  point 
of  cliff  that  reached  out  gaunt  and  gray  from  the 
olives  below,  —  as  I  drove  thus  in  the  balmy  air, 
and  saw  of  a  sudden  a  vision  of  creamy  walls  and 
orange  roofs,  draped  in  fantastic  festoons  of 
roses,  with  a  single  curving  palm-tree  stuck 
black  and  feathery  against  the  gold  sunset,  it 
is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  I  should  slip 
into  a  mood  of  visionary  enjoyment,  looking 
for  a  time  on  the  whole  thing  as  the  misty 
phantasm  of  a  summer  dream. 

The  Cavaliere  had  introduced  himself  to 
us,  —  Tom  Rendel  and  me,  —  one  morning 
soon  after  we  reached  Palermo,  when,  in  the 


Sister  Maddelena.  85 

first  bewilderment  of  architects  in  this  para 
dise  of  art  and  color,  we  were  working  nobly  at 
our  sketches  in  that  dream  of  delight,  the  Capella 
Palatina.  He  was  himself  an  amateur  archaeol 
ogist,  he  told  us,  and  passionately  devoted  to  his 
island ;  so  he  felt  impelled  to  speak  to  any  one 
whom  he  saw  appreciating  the  almost — and 
in  a  way  fortunately  —  unknown  beauties  of 
Palermo.  In  a  little  time  we  were  fully  ac 
quainted,  and  talking  like  the  oldest  friends. 
Of  course  he  knew  acquaintances  of  Rendel's, 
—  some  one  always  does :  this  time  they  were 
officers  on  the  tubby  U.  S.  S.  "  Quinebaug,"  that, 
during  the  summer  of  1888,  was  trying  to  up 
hold  the  maritime  honor  of  the  United  States 
in  European  waters.  Luckily  for  us,  one  of 
the  officers  was  a  kind  of  cousin  of  Rendel's, 
and  came  from  Baltimore  as  well,  so,  as  he  had 
visited  at  the  Cavaliere's  place,  we  were  soon 
invited  to  do  the  same.  It  was  in  this  way 
that,  with  the  luck  that  attends  Rendel  wher 
ever  he  goes,  we  came  to  see  something  of 
domestic  life  in  Italy,  and  that  I  found  myself 
involved  in  another  of  those  adventures  for 
which  I  naturally  sought  so  little. 

I  wonder  if  there  is  any  other  place  in  Sicily 


86  Sister  Maddelena. 

so  faultless  as  Sta.  Catarina?  Taormina  is  a 
paradise,  an  epitome  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in 
Italy,  —  Venice  excepted.  Girgenti  is  a  solemn 
epic,  with  its  golden  temples  between  the  sea  and 
hills.  Cefalii  is  wild  and  strange,  and  Monreale 
a  vision  out  of  a  fairy  tale ;  but  Sta.  Catarina!  — 
Fancy  a  convent  of  creamy  stone  and  rose- 
red  brick  perched  on  a  ledge  of  rock  midway 
between  earth  and  heaven,  the  cliff  falling 
almost  sheer  to  the  valley  two  hundred  feet 
and  more,  the  mountain  rising  behind  straight 
towards  the  sky ;  all  the  rocks  covered  with  cac 
tus  and  dwarf  fig-trees,  the  convent  draped  in 
smothering  roses,  and  in  front  a  terrace  with  a 
fountain  in  the  midst ;  and  then  —  nothing  — 
between  you  and  the  sapphire  sea,  six  miles 
away.  Below  stretches  the  Eden  valley,  the 
Concha  d'Oro,  gold-green  fig  orchards  alternat 
ing  with  smoke-blue  olives,  the  mountains  ris 
ing  on  either  hand  and  sinking  undulously  away 
towards  the  bay  where,  like  a  magic  city  of  ivory 
and  nacre,  Palermo  lies  guarded  by  the  twin 
mountains,  Monte  Pelligrino  and  Capo  Zaf- 
ferano  arid  rocks  like  dull  amethysts,  rose  in 
sunlight,  violet  in  shadow :  lions  couch  ant,  guard 
ing  the  sleeping  town. 


Sister  Maddelena.  87 

Seen  as  we  saw  it  for  the  first  time  that  hot 
evening  in  March,  with  the  golden  lambent  light 
pouring  down  through  the  valley,  making  it  in 
verity  a  "  shell  of  gold,"  sitting  in  Indian  chairs 
on  the  terrace,  with  the  perfume  of  roses  and 
jasmines  all  around  us,  the  valley  of  the  Oreto, 
Palermo,  Sta.  Catarina,  Monreale,  —  all  were  but 
parts  of  a  dreamy  vision,  like  the  heavenly  city 
of  Sir  Percivale,  to  attain  which  he  passed 
across  the  golden  bridge  that  burned  after  him 
as  he  vanished  in  the  intolerable  light  of  the 
Beatific  Vision. 

It  was  all  so  unreal,  so  phantasmal,  that  I 
was  not  surprised  in  the  least  when,  late  in 
the  evening  after  the  ladies  had  gone  to  their 
rooms,  and  the  Cavaliere,  Tom,  and  I  were 
stretched  out  in  chairs  on  the  terrace,  smoking 
lazily  under  the  multitudinous  stars,  the  Cava 
liere  said,  "  There  is  something  I  really  must  tell 
you  both  before  you  go  to  bed,  so  that  you  may 
be  spared  any  unnecessary  alarm." 

"You  are  going  to  say  that  the  place  is 
haunted,"  said  Rendel,  feeling  vaguely  on  the 
floor  beside  him  for  his  glass  of  Amaro  :  "  thank 
you  ;  it  is  all  it  needs." 

The  Cavaliere  smiled  a  little  :  "  Yes,  that  is 


88  Sister  Maddelena. 

just  it.  Sta.  Catarina  is  really  haunted;  and 
much  as  my  reason  revolts  against  the  idea  as 
superstitious  and  savoring  of  priestcraft,  yet  I 
must  acknowledge  I  see  no  way  of  avoiding  the 
admission.  I  do  not  presume  to  offer  any  expla 
nations,  I  only  state  the  fact ;  and  the  fact  is  that 
to-night  one  or  other  of  you  will,  in  all  human  — 
or  unhuman  —  probability,  receive  a  visit  from 
Sister  Maddelena.  You  need  not  be  in  the 
least  afraid,  the  apparition  is  perfectly  gentle 
and  harmless;  and,  moreover,  having  seen  it 
once,  you  will  never  see  it  again.  No  one 
sees  the  ghost,  or  whatever  it  is,  but  once, 
and  that  usually  the  first  night  he  spends  in 
the  house.  I  myself  saw  the  thing  eight  — 
nine  years  ago,  when  I  first  bought  the  place 
from  the  Marchese  di  Muxaro ;  all  my  people 
have  seen  it,  nearly  all  my  guests,  so  I  think  you 
may  as  well  be  prepared." 

"  Then  tell  us  what  to  expect,"  I  said ;  "  what 
kind  of  a  ghost  is  this  nocturnal  visitor  ?  " 

"  It  is  simple  enough.  Some  time  to-night  you 
will  suddenly  awake  and  see  before  you  a  Car 
melite  nun  who  will  look  fixedly  at  you,  say  dis 
tinctly  and  very  sadly,  '  I  cannot  sleep,'  and 
then  vanish.  That  is  all,  it  is  hardly  worth 


Sister  Maddelena.  89 

speaking  of,  only  some  people  are  terribly 
frightened  if  they  are  visited  unwarned  by 
strange  apparitions ;  so  I  tell  you  this  that  you 
may  be  prepared." 

"  This  was  a  Carmelite  convent,  then  ?  "  I 
said. 

"  Yes ;  it  was  suppressed  after  the  unification 
of  Italy,  and  given  to  the  House  of  Muxaro ;  but 
the  family  died  out,  and  I  bought  it.  There  is 
a  story  about  the  ghostly  nun,  who  was  only  a 
novice,  and  even  that  unwillingly,  which  gives 
an  interest  to  an  otherwise  very  commonplace 
and  uninteresting  ghost." 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  tell  it  us,"  cried  Rendel. 

"  There  is  a  storm  coming,"  I  added,  "  See, 
the  lightning  is  flashing  already  up  among  the 
mountains  at  the  head  of  the  valley ;  if  the  story 
is  tragic,  as  it  must  be,  now  is  just  the  time  for 
it.  You  will  tell  it,  will  you  not  ?  " 

The  Cavaliere  smiled  that  slow,  cryptic  smile 
of  his  that  was  so  unfathomable. 

"  As  you  say,  there  is  a  shower  coming,  and 
as  we  have  fierce  tempests  here,  we  might  not 
sleep ;  so  perhaps  we  may  as  well  sit  up  a  little 
longer,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  story." 

The  air  was  utterly  still,  hot  and  oppressive; 


90  Sister  Maddelena. 

the  rich,  sick  odor  of  the  oranges  just  bursting 
into  bloom  came  up  from  the  valley  in  a  gently 
rising  tide.  The  sky,  thick  with  stars,  seemed 
mirrored  in  the  rich  foliage  below,  so  numerous 
were  the  glow-worms  under  the  still  trees,  and 
the  fireflies  that  gleamed  in  the  hot  air.  Light 
ning  flashed  fitfully  from  the  darkening  west ;  but 
as  yet  no  thunder  broke  the  heavy  silence. 

The  Cavaliere  lighted  another  cigar,  and 
pulled  a  cushion  under  his  head  so  that  he 
could  look  down  to  the  distant  lights  of  the 
city.  "  This  is  the  story,"  he  said. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,  late  in  the  last  cen 
tury,  the  Duca  di  Castiglione  was  attached  to 
the  court  of  Charles  III.,  King  of  the  Two 
Sicilies,  down  at  Palermo.  They  tell  me  he 
was  very  ambitious,  and,  not  content  with 
marrying  his  son  to  one  of  the  ladies  of  the 
House  of  Tuscany,  had  betrothed  his  only 
daughter,  Rosalia,  to  Prince  Antonio,  a  cousin 
of  the  king.  His  whole  life  was  wrapped  up 
in  the  fame  of  his  family,  and  he  quite  forgot 
all  domestic  affection  in  his  madness  for  dynas 
tic  glory.  His  son  was  a  worthy  scion,  cold 
and  proud ;  but  Rosalia  was,  according  to  legend, 
utterly  the  reverse,  —  a  passionate,  beautiful 


Sister  Maddelena.  91 

girl,  wilful  and  headstrong,  and  careless  of  her 
family  and  the  world. 

"  The  time  had  nearly  come  for  her  to  marry 
Prince  Antonio,  a  typical  roue  of  the  Spanish 
court,  when,  through  the  treachery  of  a  servant, 
the  Duke  discovered  that  his  daughter  was  in 
love  with  a  young  military  officer  whose  name 
I  don't  remember,  and  that  an  elopement  had 
been  planned  to  take  place  the  next  night. 
The  fury  and  dismay  of  the  old  autocrat  passed 
belief ;  he  saw  in  a  flash  the  downfall  of  all  his 
hopes  of  family  aggrandizement  through  union 
with  the  royal  house,  and,  knowing  well  the 
spirit  of  his  daughter,  despaired  of  ever 
bringing  her  to  subjection.  Nevertheless,  he 
attacked  her  unmercifully,  and,  by  bullying  and 
threats,  by  imprisonment,  and  even  bodily 
chastisement,  he  tried  to  break  her  spirit  and 
bend  her  to  his  indomitable  will.  Through  his 
power  at  court  he  had  the  lover  sent  away  to 
the  mainland,  and  for  more  than  a  year  he  held 
his  daughter  closely  imprisoned  in  his  palace 
on  the  Toledo,  —  that  one,  you  may  remember, 
on  the  right,  just  beyond  the  Via  del  Collegio 
dei  Gesuiti,  with  the  beautiful  iron-work  grilles 
at  all  the  windows,  and  the  painted  frieze. 


92  Sister  Maddelena. 

But  nothing  could  move  her,  nothing  bend 
her  stubborn  will;  and  at  last,  furious  at  the 
girl  he  could  not  govern,  Castiglione  sent  her  to 
this  convent,  then  one  of  the  few  houses  of 
barefoot  Carmelite  nuns  in  Italy.  He  stipu 
lated  that  she  should  take  the  name  of  Madde 
lena,  that  he  should  never  hear  of  her  again, 
and  that  she  should  be  held  an  absolute  prisoner 
in  this  conventual  castle. 

"Rosalia  —  or  Sister  Maddelena,  as  she  was 
now — believed  her  lover  dead,  for  her  father  had 
given  her  good  proofs  of  this,  and  she  believed 
him ;  nevertheless  she  refused  to  marry  another, 
and  seized  upon  the  convent  life  as  a  blessed 
relief  from  the  tyranny  of  her  maniacal  father. 

"  She  lived  here  for  four  or  five  years ;  her 
name  was  forgotten  at  court  and  in  her  father's 
palace.  Rosalia  di  Castiglione  was  dead,  and 
only  Sister  Maddelena  lived,  a  Carmelite  nun, 
in  her  place. 

"In  1798  Ferdinand  IV.  found  himself  driven 
from  his  throne  on  the  mainland,  his  kingdom 
divided,  and  he  himself  forced  to  flee  to  Sicily. 
With  him  came  the  lover  of  the  dead  Rosalia, 
now  high  in  military  honor.  He  on  his  part 
had  thought  Rosalia  dead,  and  it  was  only  by 


Sister  Maddelena.  93 

accident  that  he  found  that  she  still  lived,  a 
Carmelite  nun.  Then  began  the  second  act  of 
the  romance  that  until  then  had  been  only  sadly 
commonplace,  but  now  became  dark  and  tragic. 
Michele  —  Michele  Biscari,  —  that  was  his 
name  ;  I  remember  now  —  haunted  the  region 
of  the  convent,  striving  to  communicate  with 
Sister  Maddelena ;  and  at  last,  from  the  cliffs 
over  us,  up  there  among  the  citrons  —  you  will 
see  by  the  next  flash  of  lightning  —  he  saw  her 
in  the  great  cloister,  recognized  her  in  her  white 
habit,  found  her  the  same  dark  and  splen 
did  beauty  of  six  years  before,  only  made  more 
beautiful  by  her  white  habit  and  her  rigid  life. 
By  and  by  he  found  a  day  when  she  was  alone, 
and  tossed  a  ring  to  her  as  she  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  cloister.  She  looked  up,  saw  him, 
and  from  that  moment  lived  only  to  love  him 
in  life  as  she  had  loved  his  memory  in  the  death 
she  had  thought  had  overtaken  him. 

"With  the  utmost  craft  they  arranged  their 
plans  together.  They  could  not  speak,  for  a 
word  would  have  aroused  the  other  inmates  of 
the  convent.  They  could  make  signs  only 
when  Sister  Maddelena  was  alone.  Michele 
could  throw  notes  to  her  from  the  cliff,  —  a  feat 


94  Sister  Maddelena. 

demanding  a  strong  arm,  as  you  will  see,  if  you 
measure  the  distance  with  your  eye,  —  and  she 
could  drop  replies  from  the  window  over  the 
cliff,  which  he  picked  up  at  the  bottom. 
Finally  he  succeeded  in  casting  into  the  cloister 
a  coil  of  light  rope.  The  girl  fastened  it  to  the 
bars  of  one  of  the  windows,  and  —  so  great  is 
the  madness  of  love  —  Biscari  actually  climbed 
the  rope  from  the  valley  to  the  window  of  the 
cell,  a  distance  of  almost  two  hundred  feet,  with 
but  three  little  craggy  resting-places  in  all  that 
height.  For  nearly  a  month  these  nocturnal 
visits  were  undiscovered,  and  Michele  had 
almost  completed  his  arrangements  for  carrying 
the  girl  from  Sta.  Catarina  and  away  to  Spain, 
when  unfortunately  one  of  the  sisters,  suspecting 
some  mystery,  from  the  changed  face  of  Sister 
Maddelena,  began  investigating,  and  at  length 
discovered  the  rope  neatly  coiled  up  by  the 
nun's  window,  and  hidden  under  some  clinging 
vines.  She  instantly  told  the  Mother  Superior ; 
and  together  they  watched  from  a  window  in 
the  crypt  of  the  chapel,  —  the  only  place,  as  you 
will  see  to-morrow,  from  which  one  could  see  the 
window  of  Sister  Maddelena's  cell.  They  saw 
the  figure  of  Michele  daringly  ascending  the 


Sister  Maddelena.  95 

slim  rope ;  watched  hour  after  hour,  the  Sister 
remaining  while  the  Superior  went  to  say  the 
hours  in  the  chapel,  at  each  of  which  Sister 
Maddelena  was  present ;  and  at  last,  at  prime, 
just  as  the  sun  was  rising,  they  saw  the  figure  slip 
down  the  rope,  watched  the  rope  drawn  up  and 
concealed,  and  knew  that  Sister  Maddelena  was 
in  their  hands  for  vengeance  and  punishment,  — 
a  criminal. 

"  The  next  day,  by  the  order  of  the  Mother 
Superior,  Sister  Maddelena  was  imprisoned  in 
one  of  the  cells  under  the  chapel,  charged  with 
her  guilt,  and  commanded  to  make  full  and 
complete  confession.  But  not  a  word  would 
she  say,  although  they  offered  her  forgiveness 
if  she  would  tell  the  name  of  her  lover.  At 
last  the  Superior  told  her  that  after  this  fashion 
would  they  act  the  coming  night :  she  herself 
would  be  placed  in  the  crypt,  tied  in  front  of 
the  window,  her  mouth  gagged ;  that  the  rope 
would  be  lowered,  and  the  lover  allowed  to 
approach  even  to  the  sill  of  her  window,  and  at 
that  moment  the  rope  would  be  cut,  and  before 
her  eyes  her  lover  would  be  dashed  to  death  on 
the  ragged  cliffs.  The  plan  was  feasible,  and 
Sister  Maddelena  knew  that  the  Mother  was 


g6  Sister  Maddelena. 

perfectly  capable  of  carrying  it  out.  Her  stub 
born  spirit  was  broken,  and  in  the  only  way  pos 
sible  ;  she  begged  for  mercy,  for  the  sparing  of 
her  lover.  The  Mother  Superior  was  deaf  at 
first;  at  last  she  said,  'It  is  your  life  or  his. 
I  will  spare  him  on  condition  that  you  sacrifice 
your  own  life.'  Sister  Maddelena  accepted 
the  terms  joyfully,  wrote  a  last  farewell  to 
Michele,  fastened  the  note  to  the  rope,  and 
with  her  own  hands  cut  the  rope  and  saw  it 
fall  coiling  down  to  the  valley  bed  far  below. 

"Then  she  silently  prepared  for  death;  and  at 
midnight,  while  her  lover  was  wandering,  mad 
with  the  horror  of  impotent  fear,  around  the 
white  walls  of  the  convent,  Sister  Maddelena, 
for  love  of  Michele,  gave  up  her  life.  How,  was 
never  known.  That  she  was  indeed  dead  was 
only  a  suspicion,  for  when  Biscari  finally  com 
pelled  the  civil  authorities  to  enter  the  convent, 
claiming  that  murder  had  been  dooe  there,  they 
found  no  sign.  Sister  Maddelena  had  been 
sent  to  the  parent  house  of  the  barefoot  Car 
melites  at  Avila  in  Spain,  so  the  Superior 
stated,  because  of  her  incorrigible  contumacy. 
The  old  Duke  of  Castiglione  refused  to  stir 
hand  or  foot  in  the  matter,  and  Michele,  after 


Sister  Maddelena.  97 

fruitless  attempts  to  prove  that  the  Superior  of 
Sta.  Catarina  had  caused  the  death,  was  forced 
to  leave  Sicily.  He  sought  in  Spain  for  very 
long ;  but  no  sign  of  the  girl  was  to  be  found, 
and  at  last  he  died,  exhausted  with  suffering 
and  sorrow. 

"  Even  the  name  of  Sister  Maddelena  was  for 
gotten,  and  it  was  not  until  the  convents  were 
suppressed,  and  this  house  came  into  the  hands 
of  the  Muxaros,  that  her  story  was  remembered. 
It  was  then  that  the  ghost  began  to  appear;  and, 
an  explanation  being  necessary,  the  story,  or 
legend,  was  obtained  from  one  of  the  nuns  who 
still  lived  after  the  suppression.  I  think  the 
fact  —  for  it  is  a  fact  —  of  the  ghost  rather 
goes  to  prove  that  Michele  was  right,  and  that 
poor  Rosalia  gave  her  life  a  sacrifice  for  love, 
^whether  in  accordance  with  the  terms  of  the 
legend  or  not,  I  cannot  say.  One  or  the  other  of 
you  will  probably  see  her  to-night.  You  might 
ask  her  for  the  facts.  Well,  that  is  all  the 
story  of  Sister  Maddelena,  known  in  the  world 
as  Rosalia  di  Castiglione.  Do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  admirable,"  said  Rendel,  enthusiasti 
cally.  "  But  I  fancy  I  should  rather  look  on  it 
simply  as  a  story,  and  not  as  a  warning  of  what 


98  Sister  Maddelena. 

is  going  to  happen.  I  don't  much  fancy  real 
ghosts  myself." 

"  But  the  poor  Sister  is  quite  harmless ;  "  and 
Valguanera  rose,  stretching  himself.  "  My  serv 
ants  say  she  wants  a  mass  said  over  her,  or 
something  of  that  kind  ;  but  I  have  n't  much  love 
for  such  priestly  hocus-pocus,  —  I  beg  your  par 
don  "  (turning  to  me),  "  I  had  forgotten  that  you 
were  a  Catholic  :  forgive  my  rudeness." 

"  My  dear  Cavaliere,  I  beg  you  not  to 
apologize.  I  am  sorry  you  cannot  see  things 
as  I  do;  but  don't  for  a  moment  think  I  am 
hypersensitive." 

"  I  have  an  excuse,  —  perhaps  you  will  say  only 
an  explanation ;  but  I  live  where  I  see  all  the  ab 
surdities  and  corruptions  of  the  Church." 

"  Perhaps  you  let  the  accidents  blind  you  to  the 
essentials  ;  but  do  not  let  us  quarrel  to-night,  — 
see,  the  storm  is  close  on  us.  Shall  we  go  in  ?  " 

The  stars  were  blotted  out  through  nearly  all 
the  sky;  low,  thunderous  clouds,  massed  at  the 
head  of  the  valley,  were  sweeping  over  so  close 
that  they  seemed  to  brush  the  black  pines  on 
the  mountain  above  us.  To  the  south  and  east 
the  storm-clouds  had  shut  down  almost  to  the  sea, 
leaving  a  space  of  black  sky  wheie  the  moon  in 


Sister  Maddelena.  99 

its  last  quarter  was  rising  just  to  the  left  of  Monte 
Pellegrino,  —  a  black  silhouette  against  the  pallid 
moonlight.  The  rosy  lightning  flashed  almost 
incessantly,  and  through  the  fitful  darkness  came 
the  sound  of  bells  across  the  valley,  the  rushing 
torrent  below,  and  the  dull  roar  of  the  approach 
ing  rain,  with  a  deep  organ  point  of  solemn  thun 
der  through  it  all. 

We  fled  indoors  from  the  coming  tempest, 
and  taking  our  candles,  said  "  good-night,"  and 
sought  each  his  respective  room. 

My  own  was  in  the  southern  part  of  the  old 
convent,  giving  on  the  terrace  we  had  just 
quitted,  and  about  over  the  main  doorway. 
The  rushing  storm,  as  it  swept  down  the 
valley  with  the  swelling  torrent  beneath,  was 
very  fascinating,  and  after  wrapping  myself 
in  a  dressing-gown  I  stood  for  some  time  by 
the  deeply  embrasured  window,  watching  the 
blazing  lightning  and  the  beating  rain  whirled 
by  fitful  gusts  of  wind  around  the  spurs  of  the 
mountains.  Gradually  the  violence  of  the 
shower  seemed  to  decrease,  and  I  threw  my 
self  down  on  my  bed  in  the  hot  air,  wondering 
if  I  really  was  to  experience  the  ghostly  visit  the 
Cavaliere  so  confidently  predicted. 


ioo  Sister  Maddelena. 

I  had  thought  out  the  whole  matter  to  my  own 
satisfaction,  and  fancied  I  knew  exactly  what 
I  should  do,  in  case  Sister  Maddelena  came 
to  visit  me.  The  story  touched  me  :  the  thought 
of  the  poor  faithful  girl  who  sacrificed  herself  for 
her  lover,  —  himself,  very  likely,  quite  unworthy, 

—  and  who  now  could  never  sleep  for  reason  of 
her  unquiet  soul,  sent  out  into  the  storm  of  eter 
nity  without  spiritual  aid  or  counsel.    I  could  not 
aleep ;  for  the  still  vivid  lightning,  the  crowding 
thoughts  of  the  dead  nun,  and  the  shivering 
anticipation   of    my   possible    visitation,   made 
slumber  quite  out  of  the   question.     No  sus 
picion  of  sleepiness  had  visited  me,  when,  per 
haps  an  hour  after  midnight,  came  a  sudden 
vivid   flash   of    lightning,  and,   as  my  dazzled 
eyes  began  to  regain  the  power  of    sight,    I 
saw  her  as  plainly  as  in  life,  —  a  tall  figure, 
shrouded   in  the  white   habit   of   the    Carme 
lites,  her  head  bent,  her  hands  clasped  before 
her.     In  another  flash  of  lightning  she  slowly 
raised  her  head  and  looked  at  me    long  and 
earnestly.      She  was  very  beautiful,  like  the 
Virgin  of   Beltraffio  in   the   National   Gallery, 

—  more  beautiful  than  I  had  supposed  possible, 
her  deep,  passionate  eyes  very  tender  and  piti- 


Sister  Maddelena.  101 

ful  in  their  pleading,  beseeching  glance.  I 
hardly  think  I  was  frightened,  or  even  startled, 
but  lay  looking  steadily  at  her  as  she  stood 
in  the  beating  lightning. 

•-•Then  she  breathed,  rather  than  articulated, 
with  a  voice  that  almost  brought  tears,  so 
infinitely  sad  and  sorrowful  was  it,  "  I  cannot 
sleep ! "  and  the  liquid  eyes  grew  more  pitiful 
and  questioning  as  bright  tears  fell  from  them 
down  the  pale  dark  face. 

The  figure  began  to  move  slowly  towards  the 
door,  its  eyes  fixed  on  mine  with  a  look  that  was 
weary  and  almost  agonized.  I  leaped  from  the 
bed  and  stood  waiting.  A  look  of  utter  grati 
tude  swept  over  the  face,  and,  turning,  the  figure 
passed  through  the  doorway. 

Out  into  the  shadow  of  the  corridor  it  moved, 
like  a  drift  of  pallid  storm-cloud,  and  I  followed, 
all  natural  and  instinctive  fear  or  nervousness 
quite  blotted  out  by  the  part  I  felt  I  was  to 
play  in  giving  rest  to  a  tortured  soul.  The  cor 
ridors  were  velvet  black ;  but  the  pale  figure 
floated  before  me  always,  an  unerring  guide, 
now  but  a  thin  mist  on  the  utter  night,  now 
white  and  clear  in  the  bluish  lightning  through 
some  window  or  doorway. 


IO2  'Sister  Maddelena. 

Down  the  stairway  into  the  lower  hall,  across 
the  refectory,  where  the  great  frescoed  Cruci 
fixion  flared  into  sudden  clearness  under  the  fit 
ful  lightning,  out  into  the  silent  cloister. 

It  was  very  dark.  I  stumbled  along  the  heav 
ing  bricks,  now  guiding  myself  by  a  hand  on  the 
whitewashed  wall,  row  by  a  touch  on  a  column 
wet  with  the  storm.  From  all  the  eaves  the  rain 
was  dripping  on  to  the  pebbles  at  the  foot  of  the 
arcade :  a  pigeon,  startled  from  the  capital  where 
it  was  sleeping,  beat  its  way  into  the  cloister  close. 
Still  the  white  thing  drifted  before  me  to  the  far 
ther  side  of  the  court,  then  along  the  cloister  at 
right  angles,  and  paused  before  one  of  the  many 
doorways  that  led  to  the  cells. 

A  sudden  blaze  of  fierce  lightning,  the  last 
now  of  the  fleeting  trail  of  storm,  leaped  around 
us,  and  in  the  vivid  light  I  saw  the  white  face 
turned  again  with  the  look  of  overwhelming 
desire,  of  beseeching  pathos,  that  had  choked 
my  throat  with  an  involuntary  sob  when  first 
I  saw  Sister  Maddelena.  In  the  brief  interval 
that  ensued  after  the  flash,  and  before  the  roar 
ing  thunder  burst  like  the  crash  of  battle  over 
the  trembling  convent,  I  heard  again  the  sorrow 
ful  words,  "  I  cannot  sleep,"  come  from  the  irn- 


Sister  Maddelena.  103 

penetrable  darkness.  And  when  the  lightning 
came  again,  the  white  figure  was  gone. 

I  wandered  around  the  courtyard,  searching 
in  vain  for  Sister  Maddelena,  even  until  the 
moonlight  broke  through  the  torn  and  sweep 
ing  fringes  of  the  storm.  I  tried  the  door  where 
the  white  figure  vanished  :  it  was  locked  ;  but  I 
had  found  what  I  sought,  and,  carefully  noting 
its  location,  went  back  to  my  room,  but  not  to 
sleep. 

In  the  morning  the  Cavaliere  asked  Rendel 
and  me  which  of  us  had  seen  the  ghost,  and  I 
told  him  my  story ;  then  I  asked  him  to  grant 
me  permission  to  sift  the  thing  to  the  bottom ; 
and  he  courteously  gave  the  whole  matter  into 
my  charge,  promising  that  he  would  consent  to 
anything. 

I  could  hardly  wait  to  finish  breakfast ;  but  no 
sooner  was  this  done  than,  forgetting  my  morn 
ing  pipe,  I  started  with  Rendel  and  the  Cava 
liere  to  investigate. 

"  I  am  sure  there  is  nothing  in  that  cell,"  said 
Valguanera,  when  we  came  in  front  of  the  door 
I  had  marked.  "  It  is  curious  that  you  should 
have  chosen  the  door  of  the  very  cell  that 
tradition  assigns  to  Sister  Maddelena;  but  I 


104  Sister  Maddelena. 

have  often  examined  that  room  myself,  and  I 
am  sure  that  there  is  no  chance  for  anything  to 
be  concealed.  In  fact,  I  had  the  floor  taken  up 
once,  soon  after  I  came  here,  knowing  the  room 
was  that  of  the  mysterious  Sister,  and  thinking 
that  there,  if  anywhere,  the  monastic  crime 
would  have  taken  place ;  still,  we  will  go  in,  if 
you  like." 

He  unlocked  the  door,  and  we  entered,  one 
of  is,  at  all  events,  with  a  beating  heart.  The 
cell  was  very  small,  hardly  eight  feet  square. 
There  certainly  seemed  no  opportunity  for  con 
cealing  a  body  in  the  tiny  place;  and  although  I 
sounded  the  floor  and  walls,  all  gave  a  solid, 
heavy  answer,  —  the  unmistakable  sound  of 
masonry. 

For  the  innocence  of  the  floor  the  Cavaliere 
answered.  He  had,  he  said,  had  it  all  removed, 
even  to  the  curving  surfaces  of  the  vault  below; 
yet  somewhere  in  this  room  the  body  of  the 
murdered  girl  was  concealed,  —  of  this  I  was  cer 
tain.  But  where?  There  seemed  no  answer; 
and  I  was  compelled  to  give  up  the  search  for 
the  moment,  somewhat  to  the  amusement  of 
Valguanera,  who  had  watched  curiously  to  see 
if  I  could  solve  the  mystery. 


Sister  Maddelena.  105 

But  I  could  not  forget  the  subject,  and  to 
wards  noon  started  on  another  tour  of  investi 
gation.  I  procured  the  keys  from  the  Cava- 
lliere,  and  examined  the  cells  adjoining;  they 
were  apparently  the  same,  each  with  its  window 
opposite  the  door,  and  nothing —  Stay,  were 
they  the  same  ?  I  hastened  into  the  suspected 
cell ;  it  was  as  I  thought :  this  cell,  being  on  the 
corner,  could  have  had  two  windows,  yet  only 
one  was  visible,  and  that  to  the  left,  at  right 
angles  with  the  doorway.  Was  it  imagination  ? 
As  I  sounded  the  wall  opposite  the  door,  where 
the  other  window  should  be,  I  fancied  that  the 
sound  was  a  trifle  less  solid  and  dull.  I  was 
becoming  excited.  I  dashed  back  to  the  cell  on 
the  right,  and,  forcing  open  the  little  window, 
thrust  my  head  out. 

It  was  found  at  last !  In  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  yellow  wall  was  a  rough  space,  following 
approximately  the  shape  of  the  other  cell  win 
dows,  not  plastered  like  the  rest  of  the  wall,  but 
showing  the  shapes  of  bricks  through  its  thick 
coatings  of  whitewash.  I  turned  with  a  gasp 
of  excitement  -and  satisfaction  :  yes,  the  embra 
sure  of  the  wall  was  deep  enough  ;  what  a  wall 
it  was  !  —  four  feet  at  least,  and  the  opening  of 


106  Sister  Maddelena. 

the  window  reached  to  the  floor,  though  the 
window  itself  was  hardly  three  feet  square.  I 
felt  absolutely  certain  that  the  secret  was  solved, 
and  called  the  Cavaliere  and  Rendel,  too 
excited  to  give  them  an  explanation  of  my 
theories. 

They  must  have  thought  me  mad  when  I 
suddenly  began  scraping  away  at  the  solid  wall 
in  front  of  the  door ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  they 
understood  what  I  was  about,  for  under  the 
coatings  of  paint  and  plaster  appeared  the 
original  bricks ;  and  as  my  architectural  knowl 
edge  had  led  me  rightly,  the  space  I  had 
cleared  was  directly  over  a  vertical  joint  be 
tween  firm,  workmanlike  masonry  on  one  hand, 
and  rough  amateurish  work  on  the  other,  bricks 
laid  anyway,  and  without  order  or  science. 

Rendel  seized  a  pick,  and  was  about  to  assail 
the  rude  wall,  when  I  stopped  him. 

"Let  us  be  careful,"  I  said;  "who  knows 
what  we  may  find  ?"  So  we  set  to  work  digging 
out  the  mortar  around  a  brick  at  about  the 
level  of  our  eyes. 

How  hard  the  mortar  had  become  !  But  a 
brick  yielded  at  last,  and  with  trembling  fingers 
I  detached  it.  Darkness  within,  yet  beyond 


Sister  Maddelena.  107 

question  there  was  a  cavity  there,  not  a  solid 
wall;  and  with  infinite  care  we  removed  an 
other  brick.  Still  the  hole  was  too  small  to 
admit  enough  light  from  the  dimly  illuminated 
cell.  With  a  chisel  we  pried  at  the  sides  of 
a  large  block  of  masonry,  perhaps  eight  bricks 
in  size.  It  moved,  and  we  softly  slid  it  from 
its  bed. 

Valguanero,  who  was  standing  watching  us 
as  we  lowered  the  bricks  to  the  floor,  gave  a 
sudden  cry,  a  cry  like  that  of  a  frightened 
woman,  — terrible,  coming  from  him.  Yet  there 
was  cause. 

Framed  by  the  ragged  opening  of  the  bricks, 
hardly  seen  in  the  dim  light,  was  a  face,  an 
ivory  image,  more  beautiful  than  any  antique 
bust,  but  drawn  and  distorted  by  unspeakable 
agony :  the  lovely  mouth  half  open,  as  though 
gasping  for  breath  ;  the  eyes  cast  upward  ;  and 
below,  slim  chiselled  hands  crossed  on  the 
breast,  but  clutching  the  folds  of  the  white 
Carmelite  habit,  torture  and  agony  visible  in 
every  tense  muscle,  fighting  against  the  deter 
mination  of  the  rigid  pose. 

We  stood  there  breathless,  staring  at  the  piti 
ful  sight,  fascinated,  bewitched.  So  this  was 


io8  Sister  Maddelena. 

the  secret.  With  fiendish  ingenuity,  the  rigid 
ecclesiastics  had  blocked  up  the  window,  then 
forced  the  beautiful  creature  to  stand  in  the 
alcove,  while  with  remorseless  hands  and  iron 
hearts  they  had  shut  her  into  a  living  tomb.  I 
had  read  of  such  things  in  romance  ;  but  to  find 
the  verity  here,  before  my  eyes  — 

Steps  came  down  the  cloister,  and  with  a 
simultaneous  thought  we  sprang  to  the  door 
and  closed  it  behind  us.  The  room  was  sacred ; 
that  awful  sight  was  not  for  curious  eyes.  The 
gardener  was  coming  to  ask  some  trivial  ques 
tion  of  Valguanera.  The  Cavaliere  cut  him 
short.  "Pietro,  go  down  to  Parco  and  ask 
Padre  Stefano  to  come  here  at  once."  (I 
thanked  him  with  a  glance.)  "  Stay  !  "  He 
turned  to  me:  "  Signore,  it  is  already  two 
o'clock  and  too  late  for  mass,  is  it  not  ?  " 

I  nodded. 

Valguanera  thought  a  moment,  then  he  said, 
"Bring  two  horses;  the  Signer  Americano  will 
go  with  you,  —  do  you  understand  ? "  Then, 
turning  to  me,  "You  will  go,  will  you  not?  I 
think  you  can  explain  matters  to  Padre  Stefano 
better  than  I." 

"Of  course   I   will  go,  more   than  gladly." 


Sister  Maddelena.  109 

So  it  happened  that  after  a  hasty  luncheon  I 
wound  down  the  mountain  to  Parco,  found 
Padre  Stefano,  explained  my  errand  to  him, 
found  him  intensely  eager  and  sympathetic, 
and  by  five  o'clock  had  him  back  at  the  con 
vent  with  all  that  was  necessary  for  the  resting 
of  the  soul  of  the  dead  girl. 

In  the  warm  twilight,  with  the  last  light  of 
the  sunset  pouring  into  the  little  cell  through 
the  window  where  almost  a  century  ago  Rosa 
lia  had  for  the  last  time  said  farewell  to  her 
lover,  we  gathered  together  to  speed  her  tor 
tured  soul  on  its  journey,  so  long  delayed. 
Nothing  was  omitted;  all  the  needful  offices 
of  the  Church  were  said  by  Padre  Stefano, 
while  the  light  in  the  window  died  away,  and 
the  nickering  flames  of  the  candles  carried  by 
two  of  the  acolytes  from  San  Francesco  threw 
fitful  flashes  of  pallid  light  into  the  dark  recess 
where  the  white  face  had  prayed  to  Heaven  for 
a  hundred  years. 

Finally,  the  Padre  took  the  asperge  from  the 
hands  of  one  of  the  acolytes,  and  with  a  sign  of 
the  cross  in  benediction  while  he  chanted  the 
Asperges,  gently  sprinkled  the  holy  water  on 
the  upturned  face.  Instantly  the  whole  vision 


no  Sister  Maddelena. 

crumbled  to  dust,  the  face  was  gone,  and  where 
once  the  candlelight  had  nickered  on  the  per 
fect  semblance  of  the  girl  dead  so  very  long, 
it  now  fell  only  on  the  rough  bricks  which 
closed  the  window,  bricks  laid  with  frozen 
hearts  by  pitiless  hands. 

But  our  task  was  not  done  yet.  It  had  been 
arranged  that  Padre  Stefano  should  remain  at 
the  convent  all  night,  and  that  as  soon  as  mid 
night  made  it  possible  he  should  say  the  first 
mass  for  the  repose  of  the  girl's  soiil.  We  sat 
on  the  terrace  talking  over  the  strange  events 
of  the  last  crowded  hours,  and  I  noted  with 
satisfaction  that  the  Cavaliere  no  longer  spoke 
of  the  Church  with  that  hardness,  which  had 
hurt  me  so  often.  It  is  true  that  the  Padre  was 
with  us  nearly  all  the  time ;  but  not  only  was 
Valguanera  courteous,  he  was  almost  sympa 
thetic  ;  and  I  wondered  if  it  might  not  prove 
that  more  than  one  soul  benefited  by  the  un 
toward  events  of  the  day. 

With  the  aid  of  the  astonished  and  delighted 
servants,  and  no  little  help  as  well  from  Signora 
Valguanera,  I  fitted  up  the  long  cold  Altar  in 
the  chapel,  and  by  midnight  we  had  the  gloomy 
sanctuary  beautiful  with  flowers  and  candles. 


Sister  Maddelena.  in 

It  was  a  curiously  solemn  service,  in  the  first 
hour  of  the  new  day,  in  the  midst  of  blazing 
candles  and  the  thick  incense,  the  odor  of  the 
opening  orange-blooms  drifting  up  in  the  fresh 
morning  air,  and  mingling  with  the  incense 
smoke  and  the  perfume  of  flowers  within. 
Many  prayers  were  said  that  night  for  the 
soul  of  the  dead  girl,  and  I  think  many  after 
wards  ;  for  after  the  benediction  I  remained  for 
a  little  time  in  my  place,  and  when  I  rose  from 
my  knees  and  went  towards  the  chapel  door, 
I  saw  a  figure  kneeling  still,  and,  with  a  start, 
recognized  the  form  of  the  Cavaliere.  I  smiled 
with  quiet  satisfaction  and  gratitude,  and  went 
away  softly,  content  with  the  chain  of  events 
that  now  seemed  finished. 

The  next  day  the  alcove  was  again  walled  up, 
for  the  precious  dust  could  not  be  gathered  to 
gether  for  transportation  to  consecrated  ground ; 
so  I  went  down  to  the  little  cemetery  at  Parco 
for  a  basket  of  earth,  which  we  cast  in  over  the 
ashes  of  Sister  Maddelena. 

By  and  by,  when  Rendel  and  I  went  away, 
with  great  regret,  Valguanero  came  down  to 
Palermo  with  us ;  and  the  last  act  that  we  per 
formed  in  Sicily  was  assisting  him  to  order 


ri2  Sister  Maddelena. 

a  tablet  of  marble,  whereon  was  carved  this 
simple  inscription:  — 

HERE   LIES   THE   BODY   OF 
ROSALIA   DI   CASTIGLIONI, 

CALLED 
SISTER   MADDELENA. 

HER   SOUL 
IS   WITH   HIM   WHO   GAVE  IT. 

To  this  I  added  in  thought :  — 
"  Let  him  that  is  without  sin  among  you  cast 
the  first  stone." 


NOTRE   DAME   DES   EAUX. 


Notre  Dame  des  Eaux. 


WEST  of  St.  Pol  de  Leon,  on  the  sea-cliffs  of 
Finisterre,  stands  the  ancient  church  of  Notre 
Dame  des  Eaux.  Five  centuries  of  beating 
winds  and  sweeping  rains  have  moulded  its 
angles,  and  worn  its  carvings  and  sculpture 
down  to  the  very  semblance  of  the  ragged  cliffs 
themselves,  until  even  the  Breton  fisherman, 
looking  lovingly  fi  m  his  boat  as  he  makes  for 
the  harbor  of  Morlaix,  hardly  can  say  where 
the  crags  end,  and  where  the  church  begins. 
The  teeth  of  the  winds  of  the  sea  have  de 
voured,  bit  by  bit,  the  fine  sculpture  of  the 
doorway  and  the  thin  cusps  of  the  window 
tracery ;  gray  moss  creeps  caressingly  over  the 
worn  walls  in  ineffectual  protection;  gentle 
vines,  turned  crabbed  by  the  harsh  beating  of 
the  fierce  winds,  clutch  the  crumbling  but- 


n6  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux. 

tresses,  climb  up  over  the  sinking  roof,  reach 
in  even  at  the  louvres  of  the  belfry,  holding  the 
little  sanctuary  safe  in  desperate  arms  against 
the  savage  warfare  of  the  sea  and  sky. 

Many  a  time  you  may  follow  the  rocky  high 
way  from  St.  Pol  even  around  the  last  land  of 
France,  and  so  to  Brest,  yet  never  see  sign  of 
Notre  Dame  des  Eaux;  for  it  clings  to  a  cliff 
somewhat  lower  than  the  road,  and  between 
grows  a  stunted  thicket  of  harsh  and  ragged 
trees,  their  skeleton  white  branches,  tortured 
and  contorted,  thrusting  sorrowfully  out  of  the 
hard,  dark  foliage  that  still  grows  below,  where 
the  rise  of  land  below  the  highway  gives  some 
protection.  You  must  leave  the  wood  by  the 
two  cottages  of  yellow  stone,  about  twenty 
miles  beyond  St.  Pol,  and  go  down  to  the  right, 
around  the  old  stone  quarry ;  then,  bearing  to 
the  left  by  the  little  cliff  path,  you  will,  in  a 
moment,  see  the  pointed  roof  of  the  tower  of 
Notre  Dame,  and,  later,  come  down  to  the  side 
porch  among  the  crosses  of  the  arid  little  grave 
yard. 

It  is  worth  the  walk,  for  though  the  church 
has  outwardly  little  but  its  sad  picturesqueness 
to  repay  the  artist,  within  it  is  a  dream  and  a 


Notre  Dame  des  Eaux.  117 

delight.  A  Norman  nave  of  round,  red  stone 
piers  and  arches,  a  delicate  choir  of  the  richest 
flamboyant,  a  High  Altar  of  the  time  of  Francis 
I.,  form  only  the  mellow  background  and  frame 
for  carven  tombs  and  dark  old  pictures,  hang 
ing  lamps  of  iron  and  brass,  and  black,  heavily 
carved  choir-stalls  of  the  Renaissance. 

So  has  the  little  church  lain  unnoticed  for 
many  centuries ;  for  the  horrors  and  follies  of 
the  Revolution  have  never  come  near,  and  the 
hardy  and  faithful  people  of  Finisterre  have 
feared  God  and  loved  Our  Lady  too  well  to  harm 
her  church.  For  many  years  it  was  the  church 
of  the  Comtes  de  Jarleuc ;  and  these  are  their 
tombs  that  mellow  year  by  year  under  the  warm 
light  of  the  painted  windows,  given  long  ago 
by  Comte  Robert  de  Jarleuc,  when  the  heir 
of  Poullaouen  came  safely  to  shore  in  the  har 
bor  of  Morlaix,  having  escaped  from  the  Isle 
of  Wight,  where  he  had  lain  captive  after  the 
awful  defeat  of  the  fleet  of  Charles  of  Valois 
at  Sluys.  And  now  the  heir  of  Poullaouen  lies 
in  a  carven  tomb,  forgetful  of  the  world  where 
he  fought  so  nobly:  the  dynasty  he  fought  to 
establish,  only  a  memory ;  the  family  he  made 
glorious,  a  name;  the  Chateau  Poullaouen  a 


u8  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux. 

single  crag  of  riven  masonry  in  the  fields  of 
M.  du  Bois,  mayor  of  Morlaix. 

It  was  Julien,  Comte  de  Bergerac,  who  redis 
covered  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux,  and  by  his  pic 
ture  of  its  dreamy  interior  in  the  Salon  of  '86 
brought  once  more  into  notice  this  forgotten 
corner  of  the  world.  The  next  year  a  party  of 
painters  settled  themselves  near  by,  roughing  it 
as  best  they  could,  and  in  the  year  following, 
Mme.  de  Bergerac  and  her  daughter  Hdlo'ise 
came  with  Julien,  and,  buying  the  old  farm  of 
Pontivy,  on  the  highway  over  Notre  Dame, 
turned  it  into  a  summer  house  that  almost 
made  amends  for  their  lost  chateau  on  the 
Dordogne,  stolen  from  them  as  virulent  Royal 
ists  by  the  triumphant  Republic  in  1794. 

Little  by  little  a  summer  colony  of  painters 
gathered  around  Pontivy,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  spring  of  1890  that  the  peace  of  the  colony 
was  broken.  It  was  a  sorrowful  tragedy.  Jean 
d'Yriex,  the  youngest  and  merriest  devil  of  all  the 
jolly  crew,  became  suddenly  moody  and  morose. 
At  first  this  was  attributed  to  his  undisguised 
admiration  for  Mile.  Hdloise,  and  was  looked 
on  as  one  of  the  vagaries  of  boyish  passion ;  but 
one  day,  while  riding  with  M.  de  Bergerac,  he 


Notre  Dame  des  Eaux.  119 

suddenly  seized  the  bridle  of  Julien's  horse, 
wrenched  it  from  his  hand,  and,  turning  his 
own  horse's  head  towards  the  cliffs,  lashed  the 
terrified  animals  into  a  galop  straight  towards 
the  brink.  He  was  only  thwarted  in  his  mad 
object  by  Julien,  who  with  a  quick  blow  sent 
him  headlong  in  the  dry  grass,  and  reined  in 
the  terrified  animals  hardly  a  yard  from  the 
cliffs.  When  this  happened,  and  no  word  of  ex 
planation  was  granted,  only  a  sullen  silence  that 
lasted  for  days,  it  became  clear  that  poor  Jean's 
brain  was  wrong  in  some  way.  He'lo'ise  devoted 
herself  to  him  with  infinite  patience, — though  she 
felt  no  special  affection  for  him,  only  pity,  —  and 
while  he  was  with  her  he  seemed  sane  and 
quiet.  But  at  night  some  strange  mania  took 
possession  of  him.  If  he  had  worked  on  his 
Prix  de  R6me  picture  in  the  daytime,  while 
He'loise  sat  by  him,  reading  aloud  or  singing  a 
little,  no  matter  how  good  the  work,  it  would 
have  vanished  in  the  morning,  and  he  would 
again  begin,  only  to  erase  his  labor  during 
the  night. 

At  last  his  growing  insanity  reached  its 
climax ;  and  one  day  in  Notre  Dame,  when  he 
had  painted  better  than  usual,  he  suddenly 


I2O  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux. 

stopped,  seized  a  palette  knife,  and  slashed  the 
great  canvas  in  strips.  He'lo'ise  sprang  forward 
to  stop  him,  and  in  crazy  fury  he  turned  on  her, 
striking  at  her  throat  with  the  palette  knife. 
The  thin  steel  snapped,  and  the  white  throat 
showed  only  a  scarlet  scratch.  He'lo'ise,  with 
out  that  ordinary  terror  that  would  crush  most 
women,  grasped  the  thin  wrists  of  the  madman, 
and,  though  he  could  easily  have  wrenched  his 
hands  away,  d'Yriex  sank  on  his  knees  in  a 
passion  of  tears.  He  shut  himself  in  his  room 
at  Pontivy,  refusing  to  see  any  one,  walking  for 
hours  up  and  down,  righting  against  growing 
madness.  Soon  Dr.  Charpentier  came  from 
Paris,  summoned  by  Mme.  de  Bergerac ;  and 
after  one  short,  forced  interview,  left  at  once 
for  Paris,  taking  M.  d'Yriex  with  him. 

A  few  days  later  came  a  letter  for  Mme.  de 
Bergerac,  in  which  Dr.  Charpentier  confessed 
that  Jean  had  disappeared,  that  he  had  allowed 
him  too  much  liberty,  owing  to  his  apparent 
calmness,  and  that  when  the  train  stopped  at 
Le  Mans  he  had  slipped  from  him  and  utterly 
vanished. 

During  the  summer,  word  came  occasionally 
that  no  trace  had  been  found  of  the  unhappy 


Notre  Dame  des  Eaux.  121 

man,  and  at  last  the  Pontivy  colony  realized  that 
the  merry  boy  was  dead.  Had  he  lived  he 
must  have  been  found,  for  the  exertions  of  the 
police  were  perfect ;  yet  not  the  slightest  trace 
was  discovered,  and  his  lamentable  death  was 
acknowledged,  not  only  by  Mme.  de  Bergerac 
and  Jean's  family,  —  sorrowing  for  the  death 
of  their  first-born,  away  in  the  warm  hills  of 
Lozere,-— but  by  Dr.  Charpentier  as  well. 

So  the  summer  passed,  and  the  autumn  came, 
and  at  last  the  cold  rains  of  November  —  the 
skirmish  line  of  the  advancing  army  of  winter 
—  drove  the  colony  back  to  Paris. 

It  was  the  last  day  at  Pontivy,  and  Mile. 
Hdloi'se  had  come  down  to  Notre  Dame  for  a 
last  look  at  the  beautiful  shrine,  a  last  prayer 
for  the  repose  of  the  tortured  soul  of  poor  Jean 
d'  Yriex.  The  rains  had  ceased  for  a  time,  and 
a  warm  stillness  lay  over  the  cliffs  and  on  the 
creeping  sea,  swaying  and  lapping  around  the 
ragged  shore.  He"loi'se  knelt  very  long  before 
the  Altar  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Waters ;  and  when 
she  finally  rose,  could  not  bring  herself  to  leave 
as  yet  that  place  of  sorrowful  beauty,  all  warm 
and  golden  with  the  last  light  of  the  declining 
sun.  She  watched  the  old  verger,  Pierre  Polou, 


122  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux. 

stumping  softly  around  the  darkening  build 
ing,  and  spoke  to  him  once,  asking  the  hour ; 
but  he  was  very  deaf,  as  well  as  nearly  blind, 
and  he  did  not  answer. 

So  she  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  aisle  by  the 
Altar  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Waters,  watching  the 
checkered  light  fade  in  the  advancing  shadows, 
dreaming  sad  day-dreams  of  the  dead  summer, 
until  the  day-dreams  merged  in  night-dreams, 
and  she  fell  asleep. 

Then  the  last  light  of  the  early  sunset  died 
in  the  gleaming  quarries  of  the  west  window; 
Pierre  Polou  stumbled  uncertainly  through  the 
dusky  shadow,  locked  the  sagging  doors  of  the 
mouldering  south  porch,  and  took  his  way 
among  the  leaning  crosses  up  to  the  highway 
and  his  little  cottage,  a  good  mile  away,  —  the 
nearest  house  to  the  lonely  Church  of  Notre 
Dame  des  Eaux. 

With  the  setting  of  the  sun  great  clouds  rose 
swiftly  from  the  sea;  the  wind  freshened,  and 
the  gaunt  branches  of  the  weather-worn  trees 
in  the  churchyard  lashed  themselves  beseech 
ingly  before  the  coming  storm.  The  tide  turned, 
and  the  waters  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks  swept 
uneasily  up  the  narrow  beach  and  caught  at  the 


Notre  Dame  des  Eaux.  123 

weary  cliffs,  their  sobbing  growing  and  deepen 
ing  to  a  threatening,  solemn  roar.  Whirls  of 
dead  leaves  rose  in  the  churchyard,  and  threw 
themselves  against  the  blank  windows.  The 
winter  and  the  night  came  down  together. 

He'loi'se  awoke,  bewildered  and  wondering; 
in  a  moment  she  realized  the  situation,  and  with 
out  fear  or  uneasiness.  There  was  nothing  to 
dread  in  Notre  Dame  by  night ;  the  ghosts,  if 
there  were  ghosts,  would  not  trouble  her,  and 
the  doors  were  securely  locked.  It  was  foolish 
of  her  to  fall  asleep,  and  her  mother  would  be 
most  uneasy  at  Pontivy  if  she  realized  before 
dawn  that  Helo'ise  had  not  returned.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  wandering 
off  to  walk  after  dinner,  often  not  coming  home 
until  late,  so  it  was  quite  possible  that  she 
might  return  before  Madame  knew  of  her 
absence,  for  Polou  came  always  to  unlock  the 
church  for  the  low  mass  at  six  o'clock ;  so  she 
arose  from  her  cramped  position  in  the  aisle, 
and  walked  slowly  up  to  the  choir-rail,  entered 
the  chancel,  and  felt  her  way  to  one  of  the 
stalls,  on  the  south  side,  where  there  were 
cushions  and  an  easy  back. 

It  was  really  very  beautiful  in  Notre  Dame 


124  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux. 

by  night ;  she  had  never  suspected  how  strange 
and  solemn  the  little  church  could  be  when  the 
moon  shone  fitfully  through  the  south  windows, 
now  bright  and  clear,  now  blotted  out  by  sweep 
ing  clouds.  The  nave  was  barred  with  the  long 
shadows  of  the  heavy  pillars,  and  when  the 
moon  came  out  she  could  see  far  down  almost 
to  the  west  end.  How  still  it  was !  Only  a 
soft  low  murmur  without  of  the  restless  limbs 
of  the  trees,  and  of  the  creeping  sea. 

It  was  very  soothing,  almost  like  a  song ;  and 
He'lo'ise  felt  sleep  coming  back  to  her  as  the 
clouds  shut  out  the  moon,  and  all  the  church 
grew  black. 

She  was  drifting  off  into  the  last  delicious 
moment  of  vanishing  consciousness,  when  she 
suddenly  came  fully  awake,  with  a  shock  that 
made  every  nerve  tingle.  In  the  midst  of  the 
far  faint  sounds  of  the  tempestuous  night  she 
had  heard  a  footstep !  Yet  the  church  was 
utterly  empty,  she  was  sure.  And  again !  A 
footstep  dragging  and  uncertain,  stealthy  and 
cautious,  but  an  unmistakable  step,  away  in 
the  blackest  shadow  at  the  end  of  the  church. 

She  sat  up,  frozen  with  the  fear  that  comes 
at  night  and  that  is  overwhelming,  her  hands 


Notre  Dame  des  Eaux.  125 

clutching  the  coarse  carving  of  the  arms  of  the 
stall,  staring  down  into  the  dark. 

Again  the  footstep,  and  again, — slow,  meas 
ured,  one  after  another  at  intervals  of  perhaps 
half  a  minute,  growing  a  little  louder  each  time, 
a  little  nearer. 

Would  the  darkness  never  be  broken  ? 
Would  the  cloud  never  pass?  Minute  after 
minute  went  like  weary  hours,  and  still  the 
moon  was  hid,  still  the  dead  branches  rattled 
clatteringly  on  the  high  windows.  Uncon 
sciously  she  moved,  as  under  a  magician's  spell, 
down  to  the  choir-rail,  straining  her  eyes  to 
pierce  the  thick  night.  And  the  step,  it  was 
very  near!  Ah,  the  moon  at  last!  A  white  ray 
fell  through  the  westernmost  window,  painting 
a  bar  of  light  on  the  floor  of  sagging  stone. 
Then  a  second  bar,  then  a  third,  and  a  fourth, 
and  for  a  moment  He'loi'se  could  have  cried  out 
with  relief,  for  nothing  broke  the  lines  of  light,  — 
no  figure,  no  shadow.  In  another  moment  came 
a  step,  and  from  the  shadow  of  the  last  column 
appeared  in  the  pallid  moonlight  the  figure  of  a 
man.  The  girl  stared  breathless,  the  moon 
light  falling  on  her  as  she  stood  rigid  against 
the  low  parapet.  Another  step  and  another, 


126  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux. 

and  she  saw  before  her  —  was  it  ghost  or  living 
man  ?  —  a  white  mad  face  staring  from  matted 
hair  and  beard,  a  tall  thin  figure  half  clothed  in 
rags,  limping  as  it  stepped  towards  her  with 
wounded  feet.  From  the  dead  face  stared  mad 
eyes  that  gleamed  like  the  eyes  of  a  cat,  fixed 
on  hers  with  insane  persistence,  holding  her, 
fascinating  her  as  a  cat  fascinates  a  bird. 

One  more  step,  —  it  was  close  before  her  now ! 
those  awful,  luminous  eyes  dilating  and  contract 
ing  in  awful  palpitations.  And  the  moon  was 
going  out ;  the  shadows  swept  one  by  one  over  the 
windows ;  she  stared  at  the  moonlit  face  for  a  last 

fascinated  glance  —  Mother  of  God!  it  was 

The  shadow  swept  over  them,  and  now  only  re 
mained  the  blazing  eyes  and  the  dim  outline  of 
a  form  that  crouched  waveringly  before  her  as 
a  cat  crouches,  drawing  its  vibrating  body  to 
gether  for  the  spring  that  blots  out  the  life  of 
the  victim. 

In  another  instant  the  mad  thing  would  leap ; 
but  just  as  the  quiver  swept  over  the  crouching 
body,  Heloise  gathered  all  her  strength  into  one 
action  of  desperate  terror. 

"Jean,  stop  !" 

The  thing  crouched  before  her  paused,  chat- 


Notre  Dame  des  Eaux.  127 

taring  softly  to  itself ;  then  it  articulated  dryly, 
and  with  all  the  trouble  of  a  learning  child, 
the  one  word,  "  Chantez  !  " 

Without  a  thought,  Hdloi'se  sang;  it  was  the 
first  thing  that  she  remembered,  an  old  Proven- 
qal  song  that  d'Yriex  had  always  loved.  While 
she  sang,  the  poor  mad  creature  lay  huddled  at 
her  feet,  separated  from  her  only  by  the  choir 
parapet,  its  dilating,  contracting  eyes  never  mov 
ing  for  an  instant.  As  the  song  died  away,  came 
again  that  awful  tremor,  indicative  of  the  coming 
death-spring,  and  again  she  sang,  —  this  time  the 
the  old  Pange  lingua,  its  sonorous  Latin  sound 
ing  in  the  deserted  church  like  the  voice  of  dead 
centuries. 

And  so  she  sang,  on  and  on,  hour  after  hour, 
—  hymns  and  chansons,  folk-songs  and  bits  from 
comic  operas,  songs  of  the  boulevards  alternat 
ing  with  the  Tantum  ergo  and  the  O  Filii  et 
Filice.  It  mattered  little  what  she  sang.  At 
last  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  mattered  little 
whether  she  sang  or  no  ;  for  her  brain  whirled 
round  and  round  like  a  dizzy  maelstrom,  her 
icy  hands,  griping  the  hard  rail,  alone  supported 
her  dying  body.  She  could  hear  no  sound  of  her 
song  ;  her  body  was  numb,  her  mouth  parched, 
9 


128  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux. 

her  lips  cracked  and  bleeding ;  she  felt  the  drops 
of  blood  fall  from  her  chin.  And  still  she  sang, 
with  the  yellow  palpitating  eyes  holding  her  as 
in  a  vice.  If  only  she  could  continue  until  dawn  ! 
It  must  be  dawn  so  soon!  The  windows  were 
growing  gray,  the  rain  lashed  outside,  she 
could  distinguish  the  features  of  the  horror 
before  her ;  but  the  night  of  death  was  growing 
with  the  coming  day,  blackness  swept  down 
upon  her ;  she  could  sing  no  more,  her  tor 
tured  lips  made  one  last  effort  to  form  the 
words,  "Mother  of  God,  save  me! "and  night 
and  death  came  down  like  a  crushing  wave. 

But  her  prayer  was  heard;  the  dawn  had 
come,  and  Polou  unlocked  the  porch-door  for 
Father  Augustin  just  in  time  to  hear  the  last 
agonized  cry.  The  maniac  turned  in  the  very 
act  of  leaping  on  his  victim,  and  sprang  for 
the  two  men,  who  stopped  in  dumb  amaze 
ment.  Poor  old  Pierre  Polou  went  down  at  a 
blow ;  but  Father  Augustin  was  young  and 
fearless,  and  he  grappled  the  mad  animal  with  all 
his  strength  and  will.  It  would  have  gone  ill 
even  with  him,  —  for  no  one  can  stand  against 
the  bestial  fury  of  a  man  in  whom  reason  is 
dead,  —  had  not  some  sudden  impulse  seized  the 


Notre  Dame  des  Eaux.  129 

maniac,  who  pitched  the  priest  aside  with  a 
single  movement,  and,  leaping  through  the  door, 
vanished  forever. 

Did  he  hurl  himself  from  the  cliffs  in  the 
cold  wet  morning,  or  was  he  doomed  to  wan 
der,  a  wild  beast,  until,  captured,  he  beat  himself 
in  vain  against  the  walls  of  some  asylum,  an  un 
known  pauper  lunatic  ?  None  ever  knew. 

The  colony  at  Pontivy  was  blotted  out  by 
the  dreary  tragedy,  and  Notre  Dame  des  Eaux 
sank  once  more  into  silence  and  solitude.  Once 
a  year  Father  Augustin  said  mass  for  the  repose 
of  the  soul  of  Jean  d'Yriex ;  but  no  other  memory 
remained  of  the  horror  that  blighted  the  lives  of 
an  innocent  girl  and  of  a  gray-haired  mother 
mourning  for  her  dead  boy  in  far  Lozere. 


THE   DEAD   VALLEY. 


The  Dead  Valley. 


I  HAVE  a  friend,  Olof  Ehrensvard,  a  Swede  by 
birth,  who  yet,  by  reason  of  a  strange  and  melan 
choly  mischance  of  his  early  boyhood,  has  thrown 
his  lot  with  that  of  the  New  World.  It  is  a 
curious  story  of  a  headstrong  boy  and  a  proud 
and  relentless  family :  the  details  do  not  matter 
here,  but  they  are  sufficient  to  weave  a  web  of 
romance  around  the  tall  yellow-bearded  man 
with  the  sad  eyes  and  the  voice  that  gives  itself 
perfectly  to  plaintive  little  Swedish  songs  remem 
bered  out  of  childhood.  In  the  winter  evenings 
we  play  chess  together,  he  and  I,  and  after  some 
close,  fierce  battle  has  been  fought  to  a  finish  — 
usually  with  my  own  defeat  —  we  fill  our  pipes 
again,  and  Ehrensvard  tells  me  stories  of  the 
far,  half-remembered  days  in  the  fatherland, 
before  he  went  to  sea :  stories  that  grow  very 
strange  and  incredible  as  the  night  deepens  and 


134  The  Dead  Valley. 

the  fire  falls  together,  but  stories  that,  never 
theless,  I  fully  believe. 

One  of  them  made  a  strong  impression  on  me, 
so  I  set  it  down  here,  only  regretting  that  I  can 
not  reproduce  the  curiously  perfect  English  and 
the  delicate  accent  which  to  me  increased  the 
fascination  of  the  tale.  Yet,  as  best  I  can  re 
member  it,  here  it  is. 

*'  I  never  told  you  how  Nils  and  I  went  over 
the  hills  to  Hallsberg,  and  how  we  found  the 
Dead  Valley,  did  I  ?  Well,  this  is  the  way  it 
happened.  I  must  have  been  about  twelve 
years  old,  and  Nils  Sjoberg,  whose  father's  es 
tate  joined  ours,  was  a  few  months  younger. 
We  were  inseparable  just  at  that  time,  and 
whatever  we  did,  we  did  together. 

"  Once  a  week  it  was  market  day  in  Engel- 
holm,  and  Nils  and  I  went  always  there  to  see 
the  strange  sights  that  the  market  gathered 
from  all  the  surrounding  country.  One  day  we 
quite  lost  our  hearts,  for  an  old  man  from  across 
the  Elfborg  had  brought  a  little  dog  to  sell, 
that  seemed  to  us  the  most  beautiful  dog  in  all 
the  world.  He  was  a  round,  woolly  puppy,  so 
funny  that  Nils  and  I  sat  down  on  the  ground 
and  laughed  at  him,  until  he  came  and  played 


The  Dead  Valley.  135 

with  us  in  so  jolly  a  way  that  we  felt  that  there 
was  only  one  really  desirable  thing  in  life,  and 
that  was  the  little  dog  of  the  old  man  from 
across  the  hills.  But  alas  !  we  had  not  half 
money  enough  wherewith  to  buy  him,  so  we 
were  forced  to  beg  the  old  man  not  to  sell  him 
before  the  next  market  day,  promising  that  we 
would  bring  the  money  for  him  then.  He  gave 
us  his  word,  and  we  ran  home  very  fast  and  im 
plored  our  mothers  to  give  us  money  for  the 
little  dog. 

"  We  got  the  money,  but  we  could  not  wait 
for  the  next  market  day.  Suppose  the  puppy 
should  be  sold  !  The  thought  frightened  us  so 
that  we  begged  and  implored  that  we  might  be 
allowed  to  go  over  the  hills  to  Hallsberg  where 
the  old  man  lived,  and  get  the  little  dog  our 
selves,  and  at  last  they  told  us  we  might  go. 
By  starting  early  in  the  morning  we  should 
reach  Hallsberg  by  three  o'clock,  and  it  was 
arranged  that  we  should  stay  there  that  night 
with  Nils's  aunt,  and,  leaving  by  noon  the  next 
day,  be  home  again  by  sunset. 

"  Soon  after  sunrise  we  were  on  our  way,  after 
having  received  minute  instructions  as  to  just 
what  we  should  do  in  all  possible  and  impossible 


136  The  Dead  Valley. 

circumstances,  and  finally  a  repeated  injunction 
that  we  should  start  for  home  at  the  same  hour 
the  next  day,  so  that  we  might  get  safely  back 
before  nightfall. 

"For  us,  it  was  magnificent  sport,  and  we 
started  off  with  our  rifles,  full  of  the  sense  of 
our  very  great  importance  :  yet  the  journey  was 
simple  enough,  along  a  good  road,  across  the 
big  hills  we  knew  so  well,  for  Nils  and  I  had 
shot  over  half  the  territory  this  side  of  the  divid 
ing  ridge  of  the  Elfborg.  Back  of  Engelholm 
lay  a  long  valley,  from  which  rose  the  low 
mountains,  and  we  had  to  cross  this,  and  then 
follow  the  road  along  the  side  of  the  hills  for 
three  or  four  miles,  before  a  narrow  path 
branched  off  to  the  left,  leading  up  through 
the  pass. 

"  Nothing  occurred  of  interest  on  the  way 
over,  and  we  reached  Hallsberg  in  due  season, 
found  to  our  inexpressible  joy  that  the  little  dog 
was  not  sold,  secured  him,  and  so  went  to  the 
house  of  Nils's  aunt  to  spend  the  night. 

"  Why  we  did  not  leave  early  on  the  following 
day,  I  can't  quite  remember;  at  all  events,  I 
know  we  stopped  at  a  shooting  range  just  out 
side  of  the  town,  where  most  attractive  paste- 


The  Dead  Valley.  137 

board  pigs  were  sliding  slowly  through  painted 
foliage,  serving  so  as  beautiful  marks.  The 
result  was  that  we  did  not  get  fairly  started  for 
home  until  afternoon,  and  as  we  found  ourselves 
at  last  pushing  up  the  side  of  the  mountain 
with  the  sun  dangerously  near  their  summits,  I 
think  we  were  a  little  scared  at  the  prospect  of 
the  examination  and  possible  punishment  that 
awaited  us  when  we  got  home  at  midnight. 

"  Therefore  we  hurried  as  fast  as  possible  up 
the  mountain  side,  while  the  blue  dusk  closed  in 
about  us,  and  the  light  died  in  the  purple  sky. 
At  first  we  had  talked  hilariously,  and  the  little 
dog  had  leaped  ahead  of  us  with  the  utmost 
joy.  Latterly,  however,  a  curious  oppression 
came  on  us ;  we  did  not  speak  or  even  whistle, 
while  the  dog  fell  behind,  following  us  with  hes 
itation  in  every  muscle. 

"  We  had  passed  through  the  foothills  and 
the  low  spurs  of  the  mountains,  and  were  al 
most  at  the  top  of  the  main  range,  when  life 
seemed  to  go  out  of  everything,  leaving  the 
world  dead,  so  suddenly  silent  the  forest  became, 
so  stagnant  the  air.  Instinctively  we  halted  to 
listen. 

"  Perfect  silence,  —  the   crushing  silence  of 


138  The  Dead  Valley. 

deep  forests  at  night ;  and  more,  for  always, 
even  in  the  most  impenetrable  fastnesses  of  the 
wooded  mountains,  is  the  multitudinous  murmur 
of  little  lives,  awakened  by  the  darkness,  exag 
gerated  and  intensified  by  the  stillness  of  the 
air  and  the  great  dark:  but  here  and  now  the 
silence  seemed  unbroken  even  by  the  turn  of  a 
leaf,  the  movement  of  a  twig,  the  note  of  night 
bird  or  insect.  I  could  hear  the  blood  beat 
through  my  veins;  and  the  crushing  of  the 
grass  under  our  feet  as  we  advanced  with  hesi 
tating  steps  sounded  like  the  falling  of  trees. 

"  And  the  air  was  stagnant,  —  dead.  The 
atmosphere  seemed  to  lie  upon  the  body  like 
the  weight  of  sea  on  a  diver  who  has  ventured 
too  far  into  its  awful  depths.  What  we  usually 
call  silence  seems  so  only  in  relation  to  the  din  of 
ordinary  experience.  This  was  silence  in  the 
absolute,  and  it  crushed  the  mind  while  it 
intensified  the  senses,  bringing  down  the  awful 
weight  of  inextinguishable  fear. 

"  I  know  that  Nils  and  I  stared  towards  each 
other  in  abject  terror,  listening  to  our  quick, 
heavy  breathing,  that  sounded  to  our  acute 
senses  like  the  fitful  rush  of  waters.  And  the 
poor  little  dog  we  were  leading  justified  our 


The  Dead  Valley.  139 

terror.  The  black  oppression  seemed  to  crush 
him  even  as  it  did  us.  He  lay  close  on  the 
ground,  moaning  feebly,  and  dragging  himself 
painfully  and  slowly  closer  to  Nils's  feet.  I 
think  this  exhibition  of  utter  animal  fear  was 
the  last  touch,  and  must  inevitably  have  blasted 
our  reason  —  mine  anyway  ;  but  just  then,  as  we 
stood  quaking  on  the  bounds  of  madness,  came 
a  sound,  so  awful,  so  ghastly,  so  horrible,  that 
it  seemed  to  rouse  us  from  the  dead  spell  that 
was  on  us. 

"  In  the  depth  of  the  silence  came  a  cry, 
beginning  as  a  low,  sorrowful  moan,  rising  to  a 
tremulous  shriek,  culminating  in  a  yell  that 
seemed  to  tear  the  night  in  sunder  and  rend  the 
world  as  by  a  cataclysm.  So  fearful  was  it 
that  I  could  not  believe  it  had  actual  existence : 
it  passed  previous  experience,  the  powers  of 
belief,  and  for  a  moment  I  thought  it  the  result 
of  my  own  animal  terror,  an  hallucination  born 
of  tottering  reason. 

"  A  glance  at  Nils  dispelled  this  thought  in  a 
flash.  In  the  pale  light  of  the  high  stars  he 
was  the  embodiment  of  all  possible  human  fear, 
quaking  with  an  ague,  his  jaw  fallen,  his  tongue 
out,  his  eyes  protruding  like  those  of  a  hanged 


140  The  Dead  Valley. 

man.  Without  a  word  we  fled,  the  panic  of 
fear  giving  us  strength,  and  together,  the  little 
dog  caught  close  in  Nils's  arms,  we  sped  down 
the  side  of  the  cursed  mountains,  —  anywhere, 
goal  was  of  no  account :  we  had  but  one  im 
pulse  —  to  get  away  from  that  place. 

"  So  under  the  black  trees  and  the  far  white 
stars  that  flashed  through  the  still  leaves  over 
head,  we  leaped  down  the  mountain  side,  re 
gardless  of  path  or  landmark,  straight  through 
the  tangled  underbrush,  across  mountain 
streams,  through  fens  and  copses,  anywhere, 
so  only  that  our  course  was  downward. 

"How  long  we  ran  thus,  I  have  no  idea, 
but  by  and  by  the  forest  fell  behind,  and  we 
found  ourselves  among  the  foothills,  and  fell 
exhausted  on  the  dry  short  grass,  panting  like 
tired  dogs. 

'*  It  was  lighter  here  in  the  open,  and  presently 
we  looked  around  to  see  where  we  were,  and 
how  we  were  to  strike  out  in  order  to  find  the 
path  that  would  lead  us  home.  We  looked 
in  vain  for  a  familiar  sign.  Behind  us  rose  the 
great  wall  of  black  forest  on  the  flank  of  the 
mountain:  before  us  lay  the  undulating  mounds 
of  low  foothills,  unbroken  by  trees  or  rocks, 


The  Dead  Valley.  141 

and  beyond,  only  the  fall  of  black  sky  bright 
with  multitudinous  stars  that  turned  its  velvet 
depth  to  a  luminous  gray. 

"  As  I  remember,  we  did  not  speak  to  each 
other  once  :  the  terror  was  too  heavy  on  us  for 
that,  but  by  and  by  we  rose  simultaneously  and 
started  out  across  the  hills. 

"  Still  the  same  silence,  the  same  dead, 
motionless  air — air  that  was  at  once  sultry 
and  chilling :  a  heavy  heat  struck  through  with 
an  icy  chill  that  felt  almost  like  the  burning 
of  frozen  steel.  Still  carrying  the  helpless 
dog,  Nils  pressed  on  through  the  hills,  and  I 
followed  close  behind.  At  last,  in  front  of  us, 
rose  a  slope  of  moor  touching  the  white  stars. 
We  climbed  it  wearily,  reached  the  top,  and 
found  ourselves  gazing  down  into  a  great, 
smooth  valley,  filled  half  way  to  the  brim  with 
—  what  ? 

"  As  far  as  the  eye  could  see  stretched  a  level 
plain  of  ashy  white,  faintly  phosphorescent,  a 
sea  of  velvet  fog  that  lay  like  motionless  water, 
or  rather  like  a  floor  of  alabaster,  so  dense  did 
it  appear,  so  seemingly  capable  of  sustaining 
weight.  If  it  were  possible,  I  think  that  sea  of 
dead  white  mist  struck  even  greater  terror  into 


142  The  Dead  Valley. 

my  soul  than  the  heavy  silence  or  the  deadly 
cry  —  so  ominous  was  it,  so  utterly  unreal,  so 
phantasmal,  so  impossible,  as  it  lay  there  like  a 
dead  ocean  under  the  steady  stars.  Yet  through 
that  mist  we  imist  go  !  there  seemed  no  other 
way  home,  and,  shattered  with  abject  fear,  mad 
with  the  one  desire  to  get  back,  we  started 
down  the  slope  to  where  the  sea  of  milky  mist 
ceased,  sharp  and  distinct  around  the  stems  of 
the  rough  grass. 

"  I  put  one  foot  into  the  ghostly  fog.  A  chill 
as  of  death  struck  through  me,  stopping  my 
heart,  and  I  threw  myself  backward  on  the 
slope.  At  that  instant  came  again  the  shriek, 
close,  close,  right  in  our  ears,  in  ourselves,  and 
far  out  across  that  damnable  sea  I  saw  the  cold 
fog  lift  like  a  water-spout  and  toss  itself  high  in 
writhing  convolutions  towards  the  sky.  The 
stars  began  to  grow  dim  as  thick  vapor  swept 
across  them,  and  in  the  growing  dark  I  saw  a 
great,  watery  moon  lift  itself  slowly  above  the 
palpitating  sea,  vast  and  vague  in  the  gathering 
mist. 

"  This  was  enough  :  we  turned  and  fled  along 
the  margin  of  the  white  sea  that  throbbed  now 
with  fitful  motion  below  us,  rising,  rising,  slowly 


The  Dead  Valley.  143 

and  steadily,  driving  us  higher  and  higher  up 
the  side  of  the  foothills. 

"It  was  a  race  for  life  ;  that  we  knew.  How 
we  kept  it  up  I  cannot  understand,  but  we  did, 
and  at  last  we  saw  the  white  sea  fall  behind  us 
as  we  staggered  up  the  end  of  the  valley,  and 
then  down  into  a  region  that  we  knew,  and  so 
into  the  old  path.  The  last  thing  I  remember 
was  hearing  a  strange  voice,  that  of  Nils,  but 
horribly  changed,  stammer  brokenly,  *  The  dog 
is  dead ! '  and  then  the  whole  world  turned 
around  twice,  slowly  and  resistlessly,  and  con 
sciousness  went  out  with  a  crash. 

"  It  was  some  three  weeks  later,  as  I  remem 
ber,  that  I  awoke  in  my  own  room,  and  found 
my  mother  sitting  beside  the  bed.  I  could  not 
think  very  well  at  first,  but  as  I  slowly  grew 
strong  again,  vague  flashes  of  recollection  began 
to  come  to  me,  and  little  by  little  the  whole  se 
quence  of  events  of  that  awful  night  in  the 
Dead  Valley  came  back.  All  that  I  could  gain 
from  what  was  told  me  was  that  three  weeks 
before  I  had  been  found  in  my  own  bed,  raging 
sick,  and  that  my  illness  grew  fast  into  brain 
fever.  I  tried  to  speak  of  the  dread  things  that 
had  happened  to  me,  but  I  saw  at  once  that  no 


144  The  Dead  Valley. 

one  looked  on  them  save  as  the  hauntings  of  a 
dying  frenzy,  and  so  I  closed  my  mouth  and 
kept  my  own  counsel. 

"  I  must  see  Nils,  however,  and  so  I  asked 
for  him.  My  mother  told  me  that  he  also  had 
been  ill  with  a  strange  fever,  but  that  he  was 
now  quite  well  again.  Presently  they  brought 
him  in,  and  when  we  were  alone  I  began  to 
speak  to  him  of  the  night  on  the  mountain.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  shock  that  struck  me 
down  on  my  pillow  when  the  boy  denied  every 
thing  :  denied  having  gone  with  me,  ever  hav 
ing  heard  the  cry,  having  seen  the  valley,  or 
feeling  the  deadly  chill  of  the  ghostly  fog. 
Nothing  would  shake  his  determined  ignorance, 
and  in  spite  of  myself  I  was  forced  to  admit 
that  his  denials  came  from  no  policy  of  conceal 
ment,  but  from  blank  oblivion. 

"  My  weakened  brain  was  in  a  turmoil.  Was 
it  all  but  the  floating  phantasm  of  delirium  ?  Or 
had  the  horror  of  the  real  thing  blotted  Nils's 
mind  into  blankness  so  far  as  the  events  of  the 
night  in  the  Dead  Valley  were  concerned?  The 
latter  explanation  seemed  the  only  one,  else  how 
explain  the  sudden  illness  which  in  a  night  had 
struck  us  both  down?  I  said  nothing  more, 


The  Dead  Valley.  145 

either  to  Nils  or  to  my  own  people,  but  waited, 
with  a  growing  determination  that,  once  well 
again,  I  would  find  that  valley  if  it  really 
existed. 

"  It  was  some  weeks  before  I  was  really  well 
enough  to  go,  but  finally,  late  in  September,  I 
chose  a  bright,  warm,  still  day,  the  last  smile  of 
the  dying  summer,  and  started  early  in  the  morn 
ing  along  the  path  that  led  to  Hallsberg.  I  was 
sure  I  knew  where  the  trail  struck  off  to  the 
right,  down  which  we  had  come  from  the  val 
ley  of  dead  water,  for  a  great  tree  grew  by  the 
Hallsberg  path  at  the  point  where,  with  a  sense 
of  salvation,  we  had  found  the  home  road. 
Presently  I  saw  it  to  the  right,  a  little  distance 
ahead. 

"  I  think  the  bright  sunlight  and  the  clear  air 
had  worked  as  a  tonic  to  me,  for  by  the  time  I 
came  to  the  foot  of  the  great  pine,  I  had  quite 
lost  faith  in  the  verity  of  the  vision  that  haunted 
me,  believing  at  last  that  it  was  indeed  but  the 
nightmare  of  madness.  Nevertheless,  I  turned 
sharply  to  the  right,  at  the  base  of  the  tree,  into 
a  narrow  path  that  led  through  a  dense  thicket. 
As  I  did  so  I  tripped  over  something.  A  swarm 
of  flies  sung  into  the  air  around  met  and  looking 


146  The  Dead  Valley. 

down  I  saw  the  matted  fleece,  with  the  poor 
little  bones  thrusting  through,  of  the  dog  we 
had  bought  in  Hallsberg. 

"  Then  my  courage  went  out  with  a  puff,  and 
I  knew  that  it  all  was  true,  and  that  now  I  was 
frightened.  Pride  and  the  desire  for  adventure 
urged  me  on,  however,  and  I  pressed  into  the 
close  thicket  that  barred  my  way.  The  path 
was  hardly  visible  :  merely  the  worn  road  of 
some  small  beasts,  for,  though  it  showed  in  the 
crisp  grass,  the  bushes  above  grew  thick  and 
hardly  penetrable.  The  land  rose  slowly,  and 
rising  grew  clearer,  until  at  last  I  came  out  on  a 
great  slope  of  hill,  unbroken  by  trees  or  shrubs, 
very  like  my  memory  of  that  rise  of  land  we  had 
topped  in  order  that  we  might  find  the  dead  val 
ley  and  the  icy  fog.  I  looked  at  the  sun ;  it  was 
bright  and  clear,  and  all  around  insects  were 
humming  in  the  autumn  air,  and  birds  were 
darting  to  and  fro.  Surely  there  was  no  danger, 
not  until  nightfall  at  least ;  so  I  began  to  whistle, 
and  with  a  rush  mounted  the  last  crest  of  brown 
hill. 

"  There  lay  the  Dead  Valley !  A  great  oval 
basin,  almost  as  smooth  and  regular  as  though 
made  by  man.  On  all  sides  the  grass  crept  over 


The  Dead  Valley.  147 

the  brink  of  the  encircling  hills,  dusty  green  on 
the  crests,  then  fading  into  ashy  brown,  and  so 
to  a  deadly  white,  this  last  color  forming  a  thin 
ring,  running  in  a  long  line  around  the  slope. 
And  then?  Nothing.  Bare,  brown,  hard  earth, 
glittering  with  grains  of  alkali,  but  otherwise 
dead  and  barren.  Not  a  tuft  of  grass,  not  a 
stick  of  brushwood,  not  even  a  stone,  but  only 
the  vast  expanse  of  beaten  clay. 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  basin,  perhaps  a  mile 
and  a  half  away,  the  level  expanse  was  broken 
by  a  great  dead  tree,  rising  leafless  and  gaunt 
into  the  air.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation  I 
started  down  into  the  valley  and  made  for  this 
goal.  Every  particle  of  fear  seemed  to  have 
left  me,  and  even  the  valley  itself  did  not  look 
so  very  terrifying.  At  all  events,  I  was  driven 
by  an  overwhelming  curiosity,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  but  one  thing  in  the  world  to  do,  —  to  get 
to  that  Tree  !  As  I  trudged  along  over  the 
hard  earth,  I  noticed  that  the  multitudinous 
voices  of  birds  and  insects  had  died  away.  No 
bee  or  butterfly  hovered  through  the  air,  no 
insects  leaped  or  crept  over  the  dull  earth.  The 
very  air  itself  was  stagnant. 

"  As  I  drew  near  the  skeleton  tree,  I  noticed 


148  The  Dead  Valley. 

the  glint  of  sunlight  on  a  kind  of  white  mound 
around  its  roots,  and  I  wondered  curiously.  It 
was  not  until  I  had  come  close  that  I  saw  its 
nature. 

"All  around  the  roots  and  barkless  trunk 
was  heaped  a  wilderness  of  little  bones.  Tiny 
skulls  of  rodents  and  of  birds,  thousands  of 
them,  rising  about  the  dead  tree  and  streaming 
off  for  several  yards  in  all  directions,  until  the 
dreadful  pile  ended  in  isolated  skulls  and  scat 
tered  skeletons.  Here  and  there  a  larger  bone 
appeared,  —  the  thigh  of  a  sheep,  the  hoofs  of 
a  horse,  and  to  one  side,  grinning  slowly,  a 
human  skull. 

"  I  stood  quite  still,  staring  with  all  my  eyes, 
when  suddenly  the  dense  silence  was  broken  by 
a  faint,  forlorn  cry  high  over  my  head.  I  looked 
up  and  saw  a  great  falcon  turning  and  sailing 
downward  just  over  the  tree.  In  a  moment  more 
she  fell  motionless  on  the  bleaching  bones. 

"  Horror  struck  me,  and  I  rushed  for  home, 
my  brain  whirling,  a  strange  numbness  growing 
in  me.  I  ran  steadily,  on  and  on.  At  last  I 
glanced  up.  Where  was  the  rise  of  hill?  I 
looked  around  wildly.  Close  before  me  was  the 
dead  tree  with  its  pile  of  bones.  I  had  circled 


The  Dead  Valley.  149 

it  round  and  round,  and  the  valley  wall  was  still 
a  mile  and  a  half  away. 

"  I  stood  dazed  and  frozen.  The  sun  was 
sinking,  red  and  dull,  towards  the  line  of  hills. 
In  the  east  the  dark  was  growing  fast.  Was 
there  still  time?  Time!  It  was  not  that  I 
wanted,  it  was  willl.  My  feet  seemed  clogged 
as  in  a  nightmare.  I  could  hardly  drag  them 
over  the  barren  earth.  And  then  I  felt  the  slow 
chill  creeping  through  me.  I  looked  down. 
Out  of  the  earth  a  thin  mist  was  rising,  collect 
ing  in  little  pools  that  grew  ever  larger  until 
they  joined  here  and  there,  their  currents  swirl 
ing  slowly  like  thin  blue  smoke.  The  western 
hills  halved  the  copper  sun.  When  it  was  dark 
I  should  hear  that  shriek  again,  and  then  I  should 
die.  I  knew  that,  and  with  every  remaining 
atom  of  will  I  staggered  towards  the  red  west 
through  the  writhing  mist  that  crept  clammily 
around  my  ankles,  retarding  my  steps. 

"  And  as  I  fought  my  way  off  from  the  Tree, 
the  horror  grew,  until  at  last  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  die.  The  silence  pursued  me  like  dumb 
ghosts,  the  still  air  held  my  breath,  the  hellish 
fog  caught  at  my  feet  like  cold  hands. 

"  But  I  won  !  though  not  a  moment  too  soon. 


150  The  Dead  Valley. 

As  I  crawled  on  my  hands  and  knees  up  the 
brown  slope,  I  heard,  far  away  and  high  in  the 
air,  the  cry  that  already  had  almost  bereft  me 
of  reason.  It  was  faint  and  vague,  but  unmis 
takable  in  its  horrible  intensity.  I  glanced  be 
hind.  The  fog  was  dense  and  pallid,  heaving 
undulously  up  the  brown  slope.  The  sky  was 
gold  under  the  setting  sun,  but  below  was  the 
ashy  gray  of  death.  I  stood  for  a  moment  on 
the  brink  of  this  sea  of  hell,  and  then  leaped 
down  the  slope.  The  sunset  opened  before 
me,  the  night  closed  behind,  and  as  I  crawled 
home  weak  and  tired,  darkness  shut  down  on 
the  Dead  Valley." 


POSTSCRIPT. 

There  seem  to  be  certain  well-defined  roots 
existing  in  all  countries,  from  which  spring 
the  current  legends  of  the  supernatural ;  and 
therefore  for  the  germs  of  the  stories  in  this 
book  the  Author  claims  no  originality.  These 
legends  differ  one  from  the  other  only  in  local 
color  and  in  individual  treatment.  If  the  Author 
has  succeeded  in  clothing  one  or  two  of  these 
norms  in  some  slightly  new  vesture,  he  is  more 
than  content. 

BOSTON,  July  3,  1895. 


THE    END. 


THE  PRINTING  WAS  DONE  AT 
THE  LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO, 
FOR  STONE  &  KIMBALL,  PUB 
LISHERS. 


Concerning  the  Books 


of 


Stone  &  Kimball 


1895-1896 


-V06V 


CHICAGO  fef  LONDON 


Cable  Address  : 

ESSANKAY,  CHICAGO  " 
EDITORSHIP,  LONDON 


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7 


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10 


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